


here come the deputy (he's gonna come and getta me)

by laminy



Category: 6 Underground (2019), Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, M/M, Organized Crime, Parkour, Police Procedural, Rimming, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laminy/pseuds/laminy
Summary: After leaving Midsomer and moving to London for his undercover course, Charlie's first major case is tracking down a very expensive stolen painting. The only witness describes the thieves as gymnasts. Charlie figures out that it's actually parkour, and when he meets the thieves, he meets Billy.
Relationships: Charlie Nelson/Four | Billy (6 Underground)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	here come the deputy (he's gonna come and getta me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacedust719](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacedust719/gifts).



> spoilers for 6 Underground — though it largely takes place before the events of the film, some scenes from the film are included here. conversely, you don't really need to have seen 6 Underground for this to make sense.

“Are you a fucking cop?”

Charlie swallows hard, looking down at the knife in the man’s hand. He knows he’s got a split second to fix this; hesitate too long, and it won’t matter what he says, this guy is going to assume the answer is yes and stab him. Charlie gives an exasperated eye roll, and reaches out, putting his hand on the man’s wrist. “Put the knife down, you’re making an arse of yourself.”

The guy studies Charlie’s face for another moment, before he shrugs and does just that, putting the knife back in his pocket. “Can never be too sure,” he says. “I’ve seen cops with that watch before.”

Charlie gives his watch a glance, and then looks back up at the guy. “It’s just a watch,” he says, trying to make it sound like he thinks this guy is an idiot, while also making a note to never wear this watch undercover again.

As the man proceeds to sell Charlie cocaine, chattering away, Charlie thinks with an amused smile that this would _never_ have happened in Midsomer. Charlie misses it— but something about the undercover course in London just called to him. Why not try it? Even though he wasn’t entirely sure about the way they they talked about undercover being only for the people who were _willing to leave some facets of a normal family life behind_. Charlie doesn’t want to leave it behind for _forever_ , and sitting in this dank pub buying drugs off a bloke with a face tattoo who has no problem pulling a knife on someone isn’t his dream life. But he’s enjoying it so far.

For now, small drug operations are all that he does. One time things, usually just him going into a pub or a park and buying off some stranger. Not that interesting, but Charlie can wait. He knows that something bigger is coming. Something that he’ll really be able to sink his teeth into. But of course, he has to walk before he can run, and these smaller operations are good practice. He knows he can’t jump straight into a murder investigation or anything like that. There’s got to be a middle ground.

John’s a bit surprised when Charlie tells him about the knife and the drug deal a few days later on their Skype call, but Sarah seems to find it interesting, listening with wide eyes and a big smile. Betty has no idea what’s going on, but Charlie likes talking to her anyway, and smiles when she shows him her new dolly.

\+ + + + +

“What’s going on?” Charlie asks, looking around as people hurry by him.

“Another painting,” Catriona says, sitting down on the edge of Charlie’s desk.

“Stolen?” Charlie asks, and Catriona nods. “Shit,” Charlie says softly, and he takes a sip of coffee. Last month, it was a Renaissance painting, stolen from some footballer’s private collection. He wonders what this one is. But before he can ask, Catriona speaks again.

“130.”

“Hmm?” Charlie asks, looking up at her.

“130,” Catriona says again. “That’s how much it’s worth.”

“130,000 pounds?” Charlie repeats. “Wow. Maybe I should have gone to art school.” He takes another drink of coffee.

“ _Million_ ,” she says, and Charlie sputters a bit, coffee running down his chin. 

“Who _owned_ it?” Charlie asks, looking around frantically for a napkin. “130 _million_ pounds. God, the Queen?”

Catriona smiles. “Duke of Westminster,” she says.

“Oh god,” Charlie mutters. “That’s—” He sighs, reaching up to wipe at his face. “Are they royalty?” he asks.

“Not sure,” Catriona says. “Somewhere along the line, probably. Don’t think it matters much, though. I’m guessing he wants the painting back, regardless of who his family is.”

Charlie just blinks a couple times, shaking his head in disbelief. “130 million…”

“That puts the pressure on, doesn’t it,” Catriona says. 

“Sure does,” Charlie says. “Did anyone see them? Surely someone saw something this time, the Duke of Westminster must have a _security_ system, come on.”

“There was a security guard,” Catriona says. 

“And?” Charlie prompts.

“His description was a little…light on the details,” Catriona says. “He said he thought maybe they were gymnasts.”

Charlie frowns. “Gymnasts.” Catriona nods. “Gymnasts,” Charlie says again. “As in…Olympics, ribbons, cartwheels.”

“Uh, no, no, and no,” Catriona says. “Well, not sure about the cartwheels part, but I don’t think so. But no, no mention of Olympic gold or ribbon twirling. That’s what the guard said, he thought they were gymnasts.”

“That’s it?” Charlie asks.

Catriona nods. “That’s it.”

Charlie sighs. “Well, I suppose that fits. If they were like ghosts at the first robbery, I— maybe their…gymnastic skills mean they can get in and out quicker? Easier? Undetected.” Charlie picks up a pen, tapping it against his desk a couple times. “A gang of gymnasts,” he says softly. “Right.”

“You know, I’m glad you said you should have gone to art school,” Catriona says, hopping off Charlie’s desk. “I hope you’re ready to dive in.”

“Dive into what?” Charlie asks.

Catriona smiles. “Art,” she says. “Obviously.” She starts walking away, and Charlie sputters a bit more, pushing his chair back, hurrying after her.

“What do you mean, art?” Charlie asks. “Am I going to art school?”

“ _No_ ,” Catriona says, “obviously not. We don’t have time for that, and frankly, it’s not that helpful. But someone has to be able to figure out if there’s a pattern to the art that’s being taken. Find out who the likely buyers are for that sort of thing.”

“I…” Charlie trails off, his footsteps faltering, and then he hurries to catch up with her again. “Sorry, shouldn’t I be going— well, undercover? Isn’t that the entire point of me being here?”

“You will,” Catriona says. 

“With the gang,” Charlie says, and Catriona shakes her head. 

“No, certainly not,” she says. “I— uh…” She makes a bit of a face, thinking on her words. “You…you’re more believable as an art buyer than a…gang member with gymnastics training.” She bites on her lip, trying not to smile. “We’re training you to go undercover. We’re not miracle workers.”

“Thanks,” Charlie says flatly, and Catriona smiles.

\+ + + + +

Charlie sips his tea, flipping to the next page. He’d signed out several books from the library, biographies of the two painters, symbolism in their work, art history. His eyes quickly scan over the page, _Velázquez: Las Meninas and the Late Royal Portraits_. Charlie had thought perhaps the next target would be another Velázquez painting, but quickly learned that _“Prince Baltasar Carlos on horseback”_ was considered the only one of Velázquez's masterpieces still in private hands.

Charlie makes a note, pencil scratching against the paper. One of the websites he’d read earlier talked about how there were museums desperate to purchase the painting, but the Duke of Westminster continually refused. Charlie considers the possibility that the thieves were hired by a museum, perhaps one of the ones that have most recently made the Duke an offer, but Charlie doesn’t think it’s likely; they’d never be able to display it. Still, he won’t rule it out.

Charlie flips the page again, and then makes a quiet noise. He pushes the book away, and pulls his laptop a little closer, tapping his fingers on the keys, not typing, just thinking. He has no idea what he should be searching, but he goes to YouTube anyway— _London gang gymnastics_. He gets a lot of results of— yup, the 2012 Olympics, and Charlie sighs. He deletes the _London_ , and looks at the results— almost all of them have _extreme acro gymnastics_ in the title. He clicks through, watching a couple. Charlie supposes that this could be the sort of the thing the security guard described, but most of the people in the videos are just bendy. He’s not sure that’s the sort of skill that would come in handy while stealing a painting worth 130 million pounds.

Charlie scrolls down a bit further, reading the titles of other videos. So many of them are just kids doing impressive tricks in a gym. He sees one, _parkour gang makes gymnastics_ — not the best title, but Charlie clicks on it. It doesn’t look that different from the other videos, it’s just a bunch of men doing cartwheels on a sand dune. It makes Charlie wince a bit, but again, cartwheeling away with a painting, not realistic. Still, Charlie searches again, _London parkour gang_.

Charlie’s eyes widen, and he sits up a bit straighter in his chair, looking at his laptop. _London rooftop parkour escape from security!_ Charlie clicks on it, watching a couple young blokes talk to the camera, explaining some of the best roofs in London to get onto. He watches as they lie to security, claiming to be builders. They just walk right into the building and take the elevator.

Charlie skips forward a bit, watching them climb up onto the roof, and his stomach immediately twists, realizing how high up they are. Then he sees security approaching on camera, and the young guys slide down the roof, jumping from windowsill to windowsill. Charlie skips a bit further ahead again, seeing them at another building, running along the narrow eaves of a building.

Charlie goes back, clicking on another video, _escaping from police South London crane climb_. Charlie skips forward, stopping when he sees just how high up the people in the video are— he feels a bit ill. From the camera’s POV, Charlie can see the Shard, and the London Eye, and the crane is higher than them both. And the guy keeps climbing. Charlie feels scared, just sitting at his desk. He has to skip ahead until they’re back on solid ground, escaping from the police. Charlie watches the way they flip over one fence, then another.

Charlie clicks to another video, _Testing London police_ , and watches a bloke jump from a rooftop onto a tree like it was nothing. He jumps from the tree onto the top of a phone box, and then somehow from the phone box back onto the roof. Then he jumps back onto the tree, and slides down a nearby streetlamp. The guy runs off camera, and Charlie sits back. “Jesus,” he says. He takes a few more notes, then skips ahead, watching a group of them take their turns trying to scale a brick wall. It takes them a few practice runs, but then they do it like it’s nothing, propelling themselves up the wall with the help of windowsills. Then they’re on the roof, gone in seconds.

Charlie watches a few more videos, watching people balance on thin wobbly beams that are like tightropes, jump up and hold onto the underside of bridges, moving across water. Soon his books get pushed aside, and he spends most of the night hunched over his laptop, watching more and more videos, taking notes of locations, of run-ins with the police, taking screenshots of faces.

By the time Charlie finally goes to bed, he knows that the odds he saw the thieves on one of those videos were pretty low. Some of them are so obvious with their faces and names, he doubts they’re criminals. Well, he thinks, not _serious_ criminals. All of them are guilty of trespassing, at least; that doesn’t mean they walked off with a painting from the Duke of Westminster. But they definitely _could_ have. And he guesses that they know who did.

\+ + + + +

Charlie drops his notes on Catriona’s desk. “Parkour.”

“What?” she asks, looking up at him.

“They’re not gymnasts,” Charlie says, pulling out the chair across from her, sitting down. “They do parkour.”

Catriona shrugs. “What’s the difference?” she asks.

Charlie opens his mouth to answer, and then draws a breath. “It looks like gymnastics,” he says, “at times. But these blokes, what they do, it’s brilliant. They can literally scale walls, jump from roof to roof like it’s _nothing_. They get in, they get out, they’re gone in a second. That’s why no one saw them take the first painting. I’m surprised the guard saw them take the second.”

“So what’s all this?” Catriona asks, flipping through the notes in front of her.

“Research,” Charlie says. “Videos, names, faces,practice locations.”

“They wouldn’t be dumb enough to post videos of themselves stealing a painting,” Catriona says.

“No, probably not,” Charlie says. “But they post videos of themselves escaping from the police, security.” He taps the desk. “I’m not saying the thieves are in there, but I’d be shocked if at least one of them didn’t know who did it.”

“We can’t track all of them down,” Catriona says. “That’s— god, Charlie, how many videos did you watch? You were supposed to be researching Velázquez.”

“I know,” Charlie says. “And I did. Quite a few other Velázquez paintings are in London— the good ones are in the National Gallery. I can’t really see them hitting a place like that; they’re good, but they’re not _that_ good. So far they’ve only taken from private collectors. There are a handful in the Aplsey House, but they aren’t his best work.” Charlie shrugs. “Somebody may want them, but I doubt it. The Wallace House has two— one of which is _“The Lady with a Fan.”_

“Is that a big deal?” Catriona asks.

“It is,” Charlie nods. “But it’s oil on wood, not canvas. And it’s fairly large. Someone probably wants it, but for these guys, I think it would be difficult to transport. It’s about being light on their feet, not weighed down.” Charlie swallows, unsure of how much Catriona is taking in. “Still,” Charlie says, “we could warn them, suggest they up security for a bit.”

Catriona gives him a small smile. “We will,” she says. She flips through the notes a bit, and then sighs, sitting back. “Charlie,” she says.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” she says, lifting up the notes. “But stick to the art for now, alright?”

Charlie nods. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, and he turns, heading back to his desk.

\+ + + + +

Charlie walks along the street, carrying pages printed off from Google Maps. He has a couple landmarks circled— both the Shard and Gherkin were seen in the skyline of one of the videos, and he’s marked out a route that he guesses one of the gangs ran in one of their videos. Charlie keeps looking up, glancing around, picking out rooftops that he recognizes. The video had ended on Old Burlington Street, and another one had started around there.

Charlie isn’t really expecting that he’s just going to _run_ into one of these guys. But where he is now, it’s only about a twenty minute walk from the Wallace Collection at Manchester Square. On the ground. For one of these gangs, Charlie assumes it’s less than a five minute escape, quicker if they duck into one of the underground stations. He’s also watched videos of them racing the tube. He thinks they’re insane.

Charlie knows that they know these streets, these buildings. If the Wallace Collection is a target, it would make sense that they would spend time here practicing the route. That’s the thing he’s noticed in a lot of these videos— it looks like chaos, but it’s not. If they don’t know where to jump, they could crash through a skylight or put their foot through the top of an old telephone box and break an ankle.

Charlie knows he was told to focus on the art, not the thieves. But he just finds it so interesting. He wants to familiarize himself with it, the landscape, the routes. He looks up at buildings that he’s quite certain they ran over in some of their videos, and he can’t believe they were up that high. With no fear. It’s really something.

Charlie walks the route to the Wallace Collection, and then looks around, sighing, trying to evaluate the jumps that they could make, the direction they would head. Getting over the fence would be no problem, so where would they go after that. He glances at the sign out front, _Free & Open Daily 10am-5pm_, then looks at his watch. He thinks about going in, but he’s already seen the paintings, over and over again in his books.

He doesn’t really know what else to do except walk around and hope that he just… Charlie sighs. He shouldn’t be looking for the gang. He should be back at the office, or back at his flat, researching more paintings. But he feels like he _knows_ they’re here, he knows they’re running around. So many of the videos were just the parkour gangs practicing on random side streets. He just needs proof of a place where he knows they practice— then they can be put under surveillance until they’re ready to sell.

Charlie stops into Starbucks to get a tea, and he keeps walking aimlessly around the streets. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Except, he has no idea what the needle looks like, or which haystack it’s in. It’s a stupid fucking plan. He finds himself walking towards the National Gallery anyway, art on his mind. As he walks, he’s distracted by all the thoughts of how poorly this is going— it’s not his job to find the thieves. It’s his job to pretend he wants to buy the art from them. “Just go home, Charlie,” he says to himself.

Then there’s a flash of something, a shadow. A shadow? Charlie looks up, looking around. There’s nothing there, there are no clouds in the sky, so what did he—

Charlie spins around a bit when he hears yelling, and he looks around again, eyes immediately going up. “No way,” he says to himself, watching a couple guys run across the roof of a pub. Only three stories high, Charlie thinks; this must just be for fun. Charlie ducks down the small side street, keeping his eyes up, watching the two— no, a third person appears, and Charlie keeps walking. He has no idea what he plans on doing— waving them down with his badge, arresting them? He certainly can’t keep up with them, so if they don’t come down soon—

“Can I help you?”

Charlie turns a corner and his feet stutter back in surprise. He almost drops his tea at the same time that he almost runs into— whoever this person is. He can’t place the accent, but guesses it’s Eastern European. “H— hi,” Charlie says, and the guy just looks at him. Charlie looks him up and down, taking in the man’s outfit, trying to guess if he’s doing parkour too, or if he’s just a lookout. 

The guy just makes a face at him, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “I asked a question,” he says impatiently, and Charlie nods.

“I— no,” Charlie says, shaking his head. “You can’t.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I—” Charlie looks up again, watching as one of the people on the roof uses a drain pipe to slide down, then jump onto a dumpster, before they land on the ground. “I just wanted to see what you were doing,” Charlie says, looking back again.

“Well, you’ve seen,” the guy says, and he starts waving Charlie off. “Now go.”

“Are you doing parkour?” Charlie asks, stretching his neck out as he looks around, watching one of them attempt to jump from windowsill to windowsill, stretching their arms out.

“Are you deaf?” the man in front of him asks loudly, Charlie flinches back a bit. 

“No,” Charlie says, shaking his head. “I— I’m sorry to interrupt.” He swallows hard, and then turns around, planning on heading back towards Whitehall, but his path is interrupted by another bloke jumping down from— god only knows where, cutting off his path. Charlie looks up to see if anyone else plans on jumping on him, and then he lets out a breath, looking at the man standing in front of him. The really, _really_ gorgeous man standing in front of him. 

“Where are you going?” the man asks with a teasing smile, looking up at him, and Charlie swallows again. 

“I’m just leaving,” Charlie says. He knows he _needs_ to get out of there; the odds are slim, but any of these people could be the thieves, or know them. Charlie looks down, reaching his hand up to push at his hair, trying to cover his face up.

“You don’t have to go,” the man says, and Charlie glances back at the first guy, who’s rolling his eyes again. “You just want to watch?”

“Sorry,” Charlie says. “I saw you, and I— I’d heard about— I’ve never seen someone doing parkour in real life, I just wanted to watch for a moment.”

“Did Maksim scare you off?” the man asks, smiling at Maksim, and Maksim groans loudly.

“I really didn’t mean to intrude,” Charlie says. His toes curl in his shoes, trying to avoid tapping his foot impatiently. He _really_ needs to go now that he knows one of their names. He doesn’t think Maksim will like that very much. “If you’ll just excuse—”

“You don’t want to stay and watch?” the man asks, and he bites on his bottom lip, teeth slowly dragging against in a way that Charlie thinks must be deliberate. He smiles brightly up at Charlie, green eyes shining, and then Charlie realizes that this guy is actually _flirting_ with him. Probably just to make him feel uncomfortable and hurry off. Or to distract him long enough for someone else to jump down.

“No, sorry,” Charlie says, shaking his head, still mostly trying to keep his head down, eyes on the ground. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.” He moves to duck by the man, but he takes another step, blocking his way. “I didn’t see anything,” Charlie says. His fingers curl; he knows that if he pulls his badge, he could be ruining everything (and probably already has), but if this guy doesn’t move out of his way soon, Charlie’s not sure what he’s going to have to do. “And— I wouldn’t tell if I did,” Charlie says. “I just wanted to watch.” He tries to sound as pathetic as possible— this gang is probably used to police showing up, waving their badges around in everyone’s faces with authority. If he sounds meek and quiet, they’ll assume he’s just another bored office worker and let him go. He knows they’re likely just teasing him, but still. 

The man looks up at Charlie, still smiling his flirty smile, and then he huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes, stepping out of Charlie’s path. “Hurry home to mummy then,” he says. Charlie nods gratefully, and then hurries by him. “Is that a bloody _Starbucks_?” the guy asks as Charlie walks away, and then he laughs loudly.

“Jesus Christ, Billy,” Maksim says, “he could have been a cop.”

“He was drinking a green tea,” Billy says, “how dangerous could he be?” Charlie looks down at his cup; he’s surprised he didn’t pop the lid off with how tightly he was holding onto it. 

He throws it away the first chance he gets.

\+ + + + +

Charlie keeps researching art, and he keeps watching YouTube videos; he thinks he spots Maksim in a couple of them, but not Billy. Unless he’s the one behind the camera. He feels pretty useless, overall. He’s not involved in the actual investigation at this point. They put him on a couple more small drug operations while he just awaits word that they have a lead on the art thieves. But there hasn’t been another robbery, yet, and there’s still so little evidence from the first two, he doesn’t expect much.

One day, surprisingly, he gets called into a meeting with Catriona, and handed a folder. The lead on the investigation explains to him and the others in the room that they’d gotten word that the first painting had been sold. They tracked down the buyer, and convinced them to help identify the people who had sold it to them. Presumably the people who had stolen it in the first place.

Charlie opens the folder to find mugshots and surveillance photos, a whole stack of them. He swallows hard, and starts going through them with shaky hands while trying to continue listening to the lead investigator speak to them. Charlie lets out a quiet sigh of relief as he finishes flipping through the photos. He doesn’t see Maksim or Billy, which means he didn’t completely blow his cover. Thank god. He doesn’t actually recognize any of the thieves, from YouTube or Instagram or otherwise. Smart. Of course, it means that all the time he spent watching videos was pretty fucking useless.

They explain to Charlie that they’re going to set up a meeting with the sellers, and he’s going to go in as an art professor and a potential buyer. He’ll meet with them as many times as it takes to build a case against them and eventually retrieve the painting. Charlie nods as he listens, taking a few notes. It’s just a brief overview of the operation for now, but Charlie can feel himself excited already. He didn’t completely fuck it up. Running into Billy and Maksim was just a hiccup. They’re not involved, so Charlie can go into this with a clean slate. He’s going to get to recover a painting for the _Duke of Westminster_. This is going to be bloody brilliant.

\+ + + + +

Charlie looks down, brushing his hands over his clothes, and then he reaches his hand up, carefully fixing his hair. He double-checks that he has the right room number, and then he’s just about to knock when he realizes that he can see a shadow moving under the door. He’s being watched through the peephole. He swallows hard and then knocks, just as directed.

“Who is it?” a voice calls from behind the door, and Charlie shifts on his feet.

“It’s Alec,” he says.

“Alec who?”

“Alec Davies.” Charlie sniffs a bit, squaring his shoulders up. He needs to look like someone who can afford a 130 million pound painting, but he can’t come across as too intimidating.

“Why are you here?”

Charlie frowns a bit. That wasn’t part of the discussion. He’s not sure what to say; was he given a passcode that he can’t remember? What can he say that won’t scare them off? “For art,” he says, voice loud and clear. There’s a moment where nothing happens, and he briefly closes his eyes, imagining a gun up against the peephole. Though he knows that nothing so far suggest they’re violent; no one’s been hurt during the robberies, but they might start being violent if they suspect if he’s a police officer.

The door unlocks and opens a couple inches, and Charlie sees a pair of eyes briefly peer out at him before the door opens further. Charlie recognizes the man from one of the photos, and gives him a small smile.

“You’re Alec Davies,” the man says, looking him up and down, and Charlie nods.

“I am,” Charlie confirms. “And you are…” Getting them to say their name on tape helps when they inevitably try to provide an alibi, claiming that the police officer was simply confused about who they were meeting with.

But the man just turns and walks back into the hotel room, and Charlie closes the door, following behind him.

“Alec’s here,” the man says to the other in the room, and Charlie nods, looking around. He recognizes them all from the photos, but he does a double-take at one of them looking down at his mobile. His photo wasn’t included. But Charlie knows him anyway. 

The bloke looks up, and blinks a couple times when he sees Charlie; that brief flinch of surprise in his bright green eyes is the only sign that Billy recognizes Charlie, but it’s enough. Charlie’s stomach turns sour. He needs to get out. He needs to leave.

“Hey,” Billy says, giving Charlie a small nod, looking back down at his mobile.

“So, Alec,” one of the other men says, and Charlie has to tear his eyes away from Billy to look over at him. He recognizes him from the files as Emil, the leader of the whole thing, it seems. No record, but that doesn’t mean anything except that he’s good at getting out of trouble. “How can we help you?”

Charlie shifts on his feet, and then another one of the men stands up.

“Here, please,” he says, gesturing towards his chair, and Charlie glances back, nodding his thanks as he sits down. Charlie gives a small smile, looking around the room. Billy’s not the only one not paying attention, someone else has their headphones in, sitting on the bed with a laptop on his lap. Charlie opens his mouth to speak and then suddenly Billy straightens up with a groan, sliding his mobile into his pocket.

“Where are you going?” one of the men asks as Billy stands up.

“I’m already late to meet Maksim,” Billy says. “And whatever you’re up to sounds about as much fun as a funeral, so you’ll have to excuse me.” 

Charlie watches Billy walk towards the door; he shows no sign of paying any attention to Charlie except when he pulls open the door, he gives a small glance over his shoulder, and a barely perceptible smile before he heads out into the hallway. Charlie looks back over Emil. “Guess he’s not that into art,” Charlie says, trying to smile, and Emil scoffs.

“Him? No,” he says, shaking his head. “So, again, how can we help you?”

Charlie looks around, trying to give off the air of someone who isn’t totally confident with where he is— which works perfectly for his current situation. He leans in a bit closer to Emil, speaking quietly. “I’d like to buy some art,” he says, meeting his eyes. “I was told that you…could help with that.”

\+ + + + +

Charlie finishes typing up his report on the meeting, attaching the audio file. He blows out a breath, and then reaches up, scrubbing his hand over his face, pushing his hair back from his forehead. He pushes his chair back from his desk, and then stretches out a bit, rolling his shoulders and looking around his bedroom. He hasn’t told anyone yet exactly just how fucked he is. He mentioned Billy in the report; he’s on the audio file, so it’s not like he could just ignore him, but he didn’t address the fact that he’s seen Billy— _met_ him before.

“Fuck,” Charlie says softly. He feels like his career is over before it’s even started. He never should have left Midsomer; he was stupid to think that he could make it outside of Causton. If he’d stayed, he could back there right now with John, showing Betty a magic trick, or throwing the ball around with Sykes. Charlie groans. Maybe there’s some plausible deniability here? Probably not, though.

Charlie shakes his head, and looks at the calendar on his mobile, the date set for the second meeting with the gang— Emil said that they were entertaining a few offers, but they would certainly take _Alec’s_ under consideration. Charlie had to try not to roll his eyes; he knows it’s BS, they’re just trying to drive up the price, which is fine. They’re businessmen, same as any other, he supposes. Charlie figures he has until the second meeting to get this under control; if Billy tells the gang that he’s seen Charlie before, he could be walking into a death trap that day.

Charlie glances at his watch, and then rubs his eyes. “Not today,” he says softly, standing up. It’s late; assuming the possibility that one of them could be tracking him after the meeting, and not wanting to lead them straight to his flat, he spent quite a bit of the evening running errands, even going to the library, trying to lose them, before he came back to his flat to submit the report. He couldn’t risk going to the police station today. Now that the undercover operation has started, he’s supposed to stay as far away from there as possible.

Charlie goes to the bathroom and gets undressed, climbing into the shower, staying in there for awhile, water hot and steaming, trying to calm himself. He comes out and dries off, getting into a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, pulling on some comfy wool socks, shuffling around his flat, making himself a cup of tea. As he waits for it to steep, he looks around for a biscuit or two, and then he frowns, thinking that he’s heard something. Charlie looks around, and walks over to the front door, slowly dropping down to the floor to see if he can see any shadows on the other side, but there’s none. He stands up, and quickly looks through the peephole, but the hallway is empty. He double checks that the door is locked, and then he carefully starts moving around the flat, checking in his bedroom, the bathroom, looking in the wardrobe. He has no idea what the sound was that he heard.

“You’re being paranoid,” Charlie mutters to himself, walking back to the kitchen. He jumps when he hears another sound, but this time it’s obvious what it is. He feels sick as he turns around, watching the balcony door open.

“I would suggest a stronger lock,” Billy says, wiggling the door handle a couple times. “I’m surprised a cop didn’t think of something like that.”

Charlie’s mouth is dry, watching as Billy walks around his living room, running his fingers over a lampshade, reaching down to pick up a book off Charlie’s coffee table. “I’m not a police officer,” Charlie manages to get out, and Billy looks up from the book, smiling. “But if you don’t leave, I’ll call them.”

Billy shrugs, putting the book back down. “I’m not sure that’s as big of a threat as you think it is.”

“You can’t just break into my flat,” Charlie says, and he backs up against the kitchen counter, glancing over at the set of knives. “Get out.”

“Do you have a stun-gun?” Billy asks. “Or just a can of mace and a baton?”

“I’m not a police officer,” Charlie insists.

“Right, you said that,” Billy nods. “Alec, was it?”

“How did you find me?” Charlie asks.

“I followed you,” Billy says.

Charlie frowns. “From where?” he asks.

“From the hotel,” Billy says.

“That’s impossible,” Charlie says, shaking his head, “I made sure I—” Billy smirks a bit, and Charlie swallows hard. “Are you here to kill me?” he asks finally, and the way Billy’s expression changes would almost be comical if Charlie didn’t think that his life was in danger.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Billy says. “Do I seem like a murderer to you? I really need to re-evaluate the— the vibes I’m putting out.”

“Well, forgive me,” Charlie says sarcastically, “but you did just _break into my house_.”

“I had to talk to you!” Billy exclaims. “Obviously. And you were pretty eager to get out of the hotel, so I—”

“Well, why did _you_ leave?” Charlie asks.

Billy smiles. “Oh, I don’t know, _Alec_ ,” he says. “You know. I was busy.”

“Right,” Charlie says softly. “Busy.”

“Very,” Billy says. “Okay, listen, _Alec_ —”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Charlie asks.

Billy’s smile grows. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” he asks, with a teasing note to his voice. “Alec Davies.”

Charlie blinks a couple times. “Er, yes, of course, I just meant, why do you keep saying it like _that_? Like it’s—”

“Not your real name?” Billy interjects. “Like it’s, oh, I don’t know, a fake name that an undercover police officer came up with?”

“I’m _not_ a police officer!” Charlie says.

“Right,” Billy says softly. “Well. Anyway. I’m sorry. Can we talk?”

“ _Talk_?” Charlie asks. “I— no! You _broke into my flat_!”

“You know,” Billy says, “maybe you’re not a cop. You don’t seem to be doing very well under pressure. So listen, I’ll say this quick and then get out— I’m not going to tell Emil anything.”

Charlie blinks a couple times, looking at Billy, taking in the surprising sincerity in his voice. “What?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know how you tracked them down from just running into Maksim and I on the street,” Billy continues, “and it’s not my business. But you should know that what you’re dealing with—”

“Which is?” Charlie asks, trying to prompt Billy, but Billy just smirks, shaking his head.

“ _Whatever_ it is,” Billy continues, “it’s _also_ not my business.” He raises his eyebrows, looking at Charlie. “Do you get it?”

“I think so,” Charlie nods. “I…” He shakes his head, reaching up to push his hair back. “I— I have no idea who you are. I have no reason to…there’s nothing for Emil to know. I ran into you on the street by accident, and you just so happened to be at a meeting I went to. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Billy says. “What is your real name, by the way?”

“Alec,” Charlie says, and Billy makes a quiet noise, smiling. 

“Well, you’re dedicated, at least,” Billy says. “Alec Davies,” he says softly, as if testing the name out. He looks Charlie up and down, shaking his head. “Whatever you say.” He smiles, and takes a few steps closer to Charlie. “You know, Alec, I’m not blind.”

“What— what’s that got to do with—”

“I saw the way you looked at me,” Billy says. “When you met me on the street. Even today at the hotel.” He shifts on his feet, and Charlie studies Billy, trying to figure out his stance is casual, or if Billy’s getting ready to attack. “It’s alright, I don’t mind. I’m used to it.” He takes another step towards Charlie, and Charlie straightens up, pressing himself even further back against the counter. “You’re not too bad yourself,” Billy says.

Charlie looks at Billy in confusion. “What are you talking about?” he asks. “I— please go.”

“Are you sure I shouldn’t stay?” Billy asks, starting to fiddle with the zipper on his hoodie. “You look like you could use a…stress reliever.” He smiles at Charlie, tugging his zipper down a bit. He bites down on his lip, just like he did when Charlie first met him, and Charlie rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asks.

“Well, since you’re not a cop,” Billy says, “there’s no rules against you shagging me, right?”

“Jesus,” Charlie groans. “I— I’m not going to _fuck_ you to prove I’m not a cop. Would you just _go_?”

Billy laughs loudly. “You are really high strung,” he says, tugging his zipper back up. “I do recommend the stress reliever, even if it’s not me.”

“Trust me, it won’t be,” Charlie says flatly.

“I'm not lying though,” Billy says. “I’m not here to hurt you, or scare you, though yes, I realize— balcony—”

“How did you even get up here?” Charlie asks.

Billy smiles. “You know how,” he says. “That’s not the point. I’m not going to rat you out. That’s not me. But also…keep that in mind when you’re deciding who to drag down with Emil and the rest.” He looks at Charlie. “I left, remember?”

“I do,” Charlie says, nodding. “You were busy. Already late to see Maksim.” 

“Exactly,” Billy says. “See? You’re smart.” He turns, walking back towards the balcony doors.

“Billy,” Charlie says, and he can see the surprise on Billy’s face— he clearly didn’t realize that Charlie had heard Maksim say his name. “The thing you’re not involved in?”

Billy watches Charlie, waiting for him to continue.

“Stay not involved in it,” Charlie says. 

Billy smiles faintly. “In what?” he asks, giving Charlie a wink, stepping back outside onto the balcony.

Charlie lets out a heavy breath of relief, feeling bewildered by what just happened here. How the fuck did— “Ah!” Charlie shouts, clutching at his chest when Billy pokes his head back into the flat.

“Sorry,” Billy says, grinning, “I just thought you might wanna watch.”

Charlie _is_ tempted, but he just shakes his head.

“Alright,” Billy says. “See ya, _Alec_!” He disappears back outside, and Charlie gives it a few moments before he moves away from the counter. He carefully walks over to the balcony doors, and glances outside, looking left and right, before he closes the doors, making sure to lock them. 

“Fuck,” Charlie says softly, rubbing his chest, feeling his heart pounding.

\+ + + + +

He doesn’t tell anyone about Billy showing up at his flat. Billy never comes back either, so Charlie wonders if maybe he can just ignore it. When the day comes for the second meeting with Emil, Charlie can do nothing but trust that Billy was telling the truth. Even though he has no reason to. Billy just as easily could have walked straight back to Emil and told him that he’d met Charlie before, and that he was a cop. Not that Billy actually has any proof of it, but he was so insistent in a way that made Charlie uncomfortable. Clearly he’s worse at this than he thought.

Charlie glances around, looking down to make sure his button hasn’t fallen off; he’s nervous. He crosses the street to Plough Way, and looks at his watch to ensure that he’s still on time.

This is risky. Everyone in the investigation knows it’s risky. There are a lot of businesses around, people walking; it’s not quiet, and if he screams out, he _might_ be heard. But meeting on a boat, that’s dangerous. It would take nothing at all to kill him on the boat, wait until the coast is clear, and take the boat out to drop him in the river. He tried to suggest other places to meet, casually, trying not to betray the fact that he’s nervous. But he agreed eventually; if he fought too much, they’d get suspicious. Or just cut off contact and sell the painting to someone else and they’d have pretty much zero evidence, considering Charlie’s never seen the painting. It’d be easy for a lawyer to say Emil was just lying, leading him on. 

Charlie’s not alone, though; there are a couple other police officers in a boat docked just a few metres away at the Greenland Dock, and one browsing in a nearby card shop.

Charlie walks along the dock, looking for the correct berth. As he slows down, he sees someone pop out of one of the boats, raising his hand to wave Charlie over. “Hello,” Charlie says, raising his arm up, but the man just turns around and heads back into the boat, and Charlie tries not to roll his eyes. He carefully climbs onto the boat, and then looks around. Nobody is on deck, so he ducks his head and walks into the cabin.

“Alec,” Emil says, spreading his arms wide in greeting. “You found us alright.”

“Yes, thank you,” Charlie nods. He looks around; there are fewer people there this time; Gordan, Ela, and…

Billy smiles up at him, waving. “Hi,” he says.

“Shea,” Emil says, gesturing towards Billy. “I don’t think you met him last time. This is Alec.”

“Shea?” Charlie repeats, trying to hide his confusion. 

“Hi Alec,” Billy says, reaching his hand up to shake Charlie’s. “Pleasure.”

Charlie narrows his eyes a bit, but just gives Billy a smile, heartily shaking his hand. “Yes, pleasure. And uh, no, sorry, last time, I think you had to leave.”

“Right,” Billy nods, and he drops his hand, looking over at Emil. “And sadly, gentlemen, Ela, I have to take my leave again.”

“So soon?” Emil asks. “Shea, I’m starting to think that you don’t like me.”

“Of course I don’t, Emil,” Billy says, giving him a bright smile. “But it just also happens that I’m busy. Besides, it’s getting a bit crowded in here, wouldn’t you say?”

Emil stares Billy down, and Charlie can feel the tension, so he just smile and claps Billy on the shoulder a couple times. “Well, it was an absolute pleasure to meet you, Shea,” Charlie says. “Please, don’t be late on my account. I’d feel too guilty.”

“Thank you,” Billy says. “Maybe I’ll see you next time.” He gives him a wink and then squeezes past him, stepping out of the cabin and climbing back out on dock.

“Odd boy,” Emil says, gently clearing his throat. “Rude.”

“He must not like me very much,” Charlie jokes, and he sits down, taking Billy’s seat. He shifts a bit, giving Emil a smile.

\+ + + + +

Charlie submits his report, and then pushes his chair back from the dining table, walking over to the refrigerator. He sighs, reaching up to rub his forehead, thinking about how he’s going to have to order takeaway. He’s got nothing. He walks over to the table, picking up his mobile, scrolling through the restaurant apps he’s got. Pizza sounds good. He drops down heavily on the sofa, and places his order.

A third meeting. Prufrock Coffee. Charlie knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but what’s to stop Emil from just setting a fourth meeting, and a fifth. And Charlie feels dirty after he meets with Emil, like he’s greasy and he can’t wash it off.

Charlie turns on the television, checks the time, and settles in. After a few minutes, something in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns to look at the balcony doors. But he doesn’t see anything else, so he turns back to the television, turning the volume down, just in case. 

There’s more movement, and Charlies mutes the television. He slowly stands up, and moves to the wall, inching along. He peers around the edge of the doorframe, looking out onto the balcony. It’s night, but there’s light from the city, and he sees another movement, and then—

Charlie sighs, unlocking the balcony door, opening it. “Are you serious right now?” he asks.

“You got a better lock,” Billy says, smiling at Charlie, casually leaning back against the balcony railing. “Good for you, Alec. I’m so proud.”

“What do you want?” Charlie asks.

Billy shrugs. “To talk.”

Charlie shakes his head. “No.”

“What?” Billy asks, straightening up. “Why not?”

“Why not, what— are you joking?” Charlie asks. “Why do you think? How do I know that Emil didn’t just send you here to kill me?”

“I don’t work for him,” Billy says.

“Well, for someone who doesn’t work with him, you sure do seem to spend a lot of time with him,” Charlie says. “I don’t trust you. There is no way I’m letting you into my flat. Go _home_ , Billy.” He closes a door a couple inches, then opens it back up. “Or Shea. If that is your real name.”

“It’s not,” Billy says. “It’s Billy.”

“Why should I believe you?” Charlie asks. “I— why are you here? We’re not mates. We don’t work together. This is inappropriate. You’re _stalking_ me.”

“Oh my god,” Billy says, rolling his eyes. “Ego much? I’m not stalking you.”

“You sure seem to enjoy sneaking onto my balcony,” Charlie says.

“I’m not sneaking,” Billy says. “I’d come to the front door, if I could. This is easier, honestly.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, as he looks Charlie up and down. “You really don’t want to talk to me?”

“Why would I?” Charlie asks. “What do you even want to talk about?”

“You don’t like me,” Billy says. “And I think it’s for the wrong reasons, so I’d just like the chance to explain myself. That’s all.” He cocks his head to the side a bit, giving Charlie a smile. “If not, that's okay too. Like I said, I’m not going to tell Emil. You don’t have to like me, but…”

Charlie’s mobile rings, and they both jump a bit. “Is that Emil?” Charlie asks, looking at Billy.

Billy makes a face, shrugging. “It’s your mobile, how could I possibly know who’s calling you?” he asks.

Charlie sighs and walks over, picking up his mobile. It’s an unknown number, and he swallows hard. “Hello?” he asks hesitantly.

“Hi, it’s Ollie,” the voice on the phone says. “I’m downstairs, and I have your pizza delivery, but I need to buzzed up.”

“Right, sorry,” Charlie says, and he walks over to the door, buzzing Ollie in, ending the call. Charlie looks over at Billy, who’s still on the balcony; surprisingly, he didn’t follow Charlie in. Charlie hovers by the door until there’s a knock, and he opens it up, greeting Ollie, and taking his order as he nods his thanks. Charlie locks the door and walks over to the dining table, setting the boxes down. Charlie opens one of them, taking a deep breath, then he looks over at the balcony. This is _idiotic_ he says to himself, this is wrong, Billy is a _criminal_ , working for someone that Charlie is investigating. Hell, Charlie may be investigating Billy himself; there’s nothing to say that he’s not one of the thieves.

Charlie walks over to the balcony, looking outside. “Are you hungry?” he asks, and Billy perks up, smiling at him.

“What did you get?” Billy asks.

“Just Domino’s,” Charlie says.

“Sounds great,” Billy says, following Charlie into the flat. “Cheers, mate.”

Charlie debates telling Billy off with an _I’m not your mate_ , but considering he’s invited Billy in to eat pizza with him, that sounds like a lie. “You’re not vegetarian, are you?” Charlie asks, and Billy shakes his head. “Okay, good.” Charlie walks over to the fridge to grab a couple drinks, and he looks at the eagerness with which Billy is opening the boxes, the way he’s practically salivating. He wonders now, how much Billy eats. _Oh god_ , he thinks, _don’t start feeling sorry for him now_. “I have Birra Moretti,” he says.

“Sure,” Billy says, pulling a chair out, sitting down. He smiles over at Charlie, politely waiting for him to walk over before he digs in.

Charlie grabs a couple bottles, and some napkins, and walks over to the table, setting it down.

“Thank you,” Billy says.

“You’re welcome,” Charlie says, and he grabs a couple plates, and then walks back over, sitting down, handing a plate over to Billy. “By all means,” he says, gesturing towards the food.

Billy opens his beer and takes a drink, and then takes out a couple slices of pizza, and then opens another box, taking out a couple chicken wings. 

Charlie fills his plate as well, and takes a bite of pizza, opening his drink. He looks over at Billy, who’s staring down at his plate as he chews, before looking up at Charlie.

“Did you want to talk?” Billy asks.

“Yes,” Charlie says, and Billy nods.

“Yeah, fair enough,” he says. “Where should I start?”

“I don’t…” Charlie shrugs. “The beginning?”

“Is this placed bugged?” Billy asks suddenly, looking around. “What are the rules about talking to an off-duty police officer? Do I need a lawyer? Am I under arrest? Are you really working with Emil? Should I be scared?”

Charlie’s eyes widen a bit. “Do you always speak so quickly?” he asks.

Billy shrugs. “I’ve usually got places to be,” he says.

“Mm,” Charlie murmurs, “I bet.” They eat for a couple minutes, quietly, surprisingly, until Charlie takes another sip of beer and looks over at Billy. “Is your name really Billy?” he asks.

“Yes,” Billy says, biting into one of his chicken wings.

“Why does Emil call you Shea?” Charlie asks.

“Because I don’t trust him,” Billy says. 

“So he has no idea who you are?” Charlie asks.

Billy shakes his head. “Not unless he’s lying to me. He might be, that’s sort of our thing.”

Charlie just looks at him. “Then why— what is he to you? Abusive boyfriend?”

Billy snorts at that. “No,” he says. “Well, he’s probably abusive, but he’s not my boyfriend.” He takes another bite of chicken. He chews quickly, then swallows hard. “I think before I answer I need you to answer all those questions I had about this place being bugged and whether or not I need a lawyer.”

“Why would you need a lawyer?” Charlie asks.

Billy smiles, and then leans forward. “Are we still pretending you’re not a police officer?” he asks softly.

Charlie rolls his eyes. “I’m not. My name is Alec Davies, I am an art professor and buyer. I am looking for a painting to add to my collection.”

Billy’s smile grows until he starts to laugh, looking around Charlie’s flat. “Sorry, I— yes, alright, I buy professor. That’s great. You’ve got the look. But do you have any idea what that painting’s worth? Where it’s from?”

“I thought you weren’t involved,” Charlie says, and Billy’s smile fades. “Right,” Charlie says softly.

Billy reaches out to take a drink, and then he grabs his napkin, wiping at his mouth. “I should go,” he says, making a push to push his chair back from the table.

“No, don’t,” Charlie says quickly reaching out to put his hand on Billy’s arm. “I—”

“I’m not involved in the way you think I am,” Billy says, slowly settling back down in his chair. “I didn’t take it.”

“Okay,” Charlie says.

“I _didn’t_ ,” Billy says insistently. “I wasn’t there. I haven’t been there for any of them. I know Emil but this isn’t my job.”

“Right, and how do you know him again?” Charlie asks. “And why does he think your name is Shea?”

Billy sighs, and picks a piece of cheese on his pizza. He lifts his finger to his mouth, sucking the grease off it, and Charlie swallows, watching Billy. “I got into some trouble awhile ago,” Billy says after a few moments. “He…was involved. I don’t trust him. He knows as little about me as possible. I’ve said my name was Shea from the very beginning.”

“What makes you think he believes it?” Charlie asks. “Odds are, he knows you’re lying to him.”

“Yeah, probably,” Billy says. “I don’t know, maybe he just accepts that that’s our relationship. I work with him, _sometimes_ , I turn a blind eye to the other stuff, and he lets me pretend my name is Shea. And that he doesn’t know where I live.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, “so you’re not homeless.”

“That’s pretty fucking rude,” Billy scoffs.

Charlie shrugs, lifting his hands up as if to say, _what did you expect?_

Billy glares at Charlie. “Sort of like how you give me some shit pizza for supper and we pretend that I don’t know you’re a fucking pig.” He pushes his plate back, and crosses his arms.

“You broke into my flat—”

“You opened the fucking door!”

“So you don’t get to complain about the quality of _free_ pizza I’m giving you.” Charlie sits back, looking at Billy. “What the hell is the point of all this? You’re here to intimidate me?”

“No,” Billy says, shaking his head.

“Then what?” Charlie asks, lifting his hands up again. “You’re wearing a wire?”

“ _No_ ,” Billy says again. “I told you that the last time, I’m not telling Emil anything. He has no idea we met beforehand.”

“What about Maksim?” Charlie asks.

Billy shakes his head. “As far as I know, he knows nothing about it. He’s not involved.”

“So what is this?” Charlie asks. “You and Maksim do parkour, and you work for Emil, but you’re _not_ the same people who work for Emil who do parkour and stole the paintings.” He scoffs. “Just how dumb do you think I am?”

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” Billy says, “but I think you’re naive. How long have you been doing this for?”

Charlie just looks at Billy, who makes an impatient face. “How naive would I have to be to admit to you that I’m—”

Billy groans loudly. “You don’t _have_ to admit it, you bloody idiot.” He stands up, and shoves his hand into his pocket, taking out a piece of folded paper, slamming it down on the table. “You’re lucky I’m the one who found that,” he says, taking his seat again, picking up his bottle of beer. “Imagine dropping something like that on Emil’s boat.”

Charlie frowns, and picks up the piece of paper. He unfolds it, looking it over in confusion. It’s a print out from Google Maps, nothing particularly interesting there. Then he looks at the addresses, and he swallows hard, stomach twisting.

“I don’t know what you were researching,” Billy says, and Charlie’s hands start to nervously shake as he looks at Billy over the paper. “But I really recommend not putting the bloody police station as your starting address.”

“When did I—” Charlie clears his throat loudly, shocked at how rough and shaky his voice sounds. “I…dropped this?”

“Yeah, you did,” Billy says. “First time we met. I’ve known you were a cop from the very start, alright?”

“Did you show Maksim?” Charlie asks, and Billy shakes his head. “Did you show Emil?” Billy shakes his head again. “How did you know that I was going to meet him?”

“I didn’t,” Billy says. “I was just as shocked when you walked into that room as you were. I thought you were just—” Billy shrugs. “I didn’t care, really. But what _were_ you doing?”

Charlie looks up at Billy, resistant to answer, and then he sighs. If Billy’s known— not just known, but had _proof_ that Charlie was a cop this entire time, it doesn’t matter what he admits or doesn’t admit now. Billy could take this paper to Emil at any time. “I was…supposed to be researching art,” Charlie says. “The description of the thieves was a gang of gymnasts. I— started looking on YouTube. Found videos of— people doing parkour. I knew that’s what it was. I had mapped places I saw in the videos, where people were practicing.”

Billy smiles faintly. “What was your plan once you found us?” he asks. “You found us, and you didn’t do anything.”

“I don’t know,” Charlie says. “I wasn’t supposed to be looking for you. My superiors didn’t know. There was another museum we suspected— well, we thought was another possibility to be hit. It was relatively close to some of the places on the video. I went there to see what sort of escape routes were possible.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t really have a plan,” he admits quietly.

“Okay,” Billy says. “So, let me just ask again, yeah? Exactly how long have you been doing this again?”

“I was a DS in Midsomer before this,” Charlie says. “I left to come here and do an undercover course. I really haven’t been doing it that long. This is my first… _big_ assignment.” Billy smiles family faintly, and Charlie scoffs. “That bad, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Billy says, shaking his head. “I’m not in the room with you, remember?”

“But does Emil suspect me?” Charlie asks.

Billy shakes his head. “Not that I know of, no.” He looks at Charlie. “I definitely buy you as an art nerd, though.”

Charlie briefly closes his eyes, and smiles faintly. “Yeah, thanks.” He groans loudly, head falling forward, and Billy just picks up his pizza slice, taking a big bite. “I’m screwed,” Charlie says. “I’m completely and absolutely screwed.”

“It’s not that bad,” Billy says, mouth full, chewing.

“Oh, come on,” Charlie says. “How could it be any worse?” He picks up the paper, waving it around. “I practically left a bread trail! I’ve got a bloody _criminal_ in my flat—”

“Oi!” Billy says. “Fucking rude.”

“I’m investigating a gang, Billy,” Charlie says, “I’m not supposed to be having members of that gang over for supper!”

Billy rolls his eyes, taking another bite of pizza. “You’re fine,” he says. “I told you, I don’t rat.”

“If you found me, they could too,” Charlie says.

“Sure,” Billy says. “But nobody else has seen that paper. Even art nerds need a place to live. They can’t be shocked that you have a flat. And you’ve been avoiding the police station, so that’s good.”

“God, Billy,” Charlie says in exasperation, “you _are_ stalking me.”

Billy looks at Charlie. He takes another sip of beer, and then wipes at his mouth with a napkin. “I’m watching you.”

“That’s what I sai—”

“No,” Billy says, “I’m…trying to make sure that they don’t find you.” His eyes dart away, and he swallows hard. “I know the people that Emil would send after you if he suspected you. I’m keeping an eye on them too. And Emil.” He takes another drink. “I’m trying to make sure that if they figure it out, that I can get to you first.”

Charlie watches Billy, almost in shock. He has no idea what to say, so he just shakes his head slowly. “I…why?” he asks. “That’s— why would you do that?”

“I told you,” Billy says, “I don’t like Emil, and I don’t trust him. I don’t care what he does usually; if the buyer had been anybody else, I wouldn’t give a shit. But once you walked in, I realized just how badly this could all go. I’m a _criminal_ , yeah, but— I don’t _hurt_ people. And maybe Emil deserves to go to prison. If it’s got to be a fucking— _painting_ that puts him there, then that’s fine with me.”

“Emil gets put away, and you’re free?” Charlie asks.

Billy shrugs. “I wouldn’t miss him, is all.” He picks at his chicken wing, and then makes a bit of a face, reaching out to open up one of the other boxes, taking out a piece of cheesy bread. “This is a lot of food for one person,” Billy says, looking at Charlie. “Were you expecting someone?”

Charlie shakes his head. “I just don’t like cooking,” he says. “I like leftovers.”

“Yeah, me too,” Billy says softly, taking a bite.

Charlie studies Billy, drumming his fingers on the table as he thinks. There’s no way to trust Billy; yes, it’s possible that he’s telling the truth, but it’s also _very_ possible that he’s lying, that he _is_ working with Emil, that this whole thing has just been a trap. Charlie glances over towards his door, making sure that he locked it after the pizza was delivered. “If you told them the truth, they could kill me,” he says, looking back at Billy.

“Yup,” Billy says. “Probably would. Emil doesn’t like to be embarrassed.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Are you meeting him again?” Billy asks, and Charlie nods. “How’s it going to go?”

Charlie swallows. “You shouldn’t be there,” he says.

“Ooh,” Billy says, “sounds serious.”

“It is,” Charlie says, and he grabs a piece of cheesy bread as well, taking a bite, chewing and taking a drink of beer.

“Do you like being a cop?” Billy asks.

“Yeah,” Charlie says, nodding, “I do. How’d you get into parkour?”

Billy smiles. “Did gymnastics,” he says. 

“Right,” Charlie says flatly.

“I _did_ ,” Billy says. “When I was younger. It was fun. Then I grew up, and parkour seemed fun too. It was just a hobby.”

“So what sort of trouble did you get into then?” Charlie asks. “If parkour is _just a hobby_?”

Billy’s eyes narrow. “What, you’ve never made a mistake?” he asks, taking a drink. “Must be pretty fucking nice, being so bloody perfect all the time.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Charlie says. “I’m sorry, I just—” He shakes his head. “I…you’re right.”

Billy looks at Charlie, and he takes another drink, swallowing hard. “I— what’s your name?”

“Sorry?” Charlie asks.

“I still don't know your name,” Billy says. “If you can tell me that, I’ll tell you why I’m working for Emil.”

Charlie inhales deeply. This could go so fucking wrong, he knows that. But Billy already knows where he works, where he lives. What harm could his name do? “Charlie,” he says finally. “My name’s Charlie.”

Billy looks at Charlie, and smiles faintly. “You seem like a Charlie,” he says. “More than an Alec. Who picked that anyway?”

Charlie shrugs. “One of my superiors. It’s just a name.”

“I was out with a mate,” Billy says. “For fun, we were exploring. There was a high rise under construction, most of it was empty. Thought it would be cool to go fuck around up on the roof, see if we could get away from security. Just do the same shit we always do.”

Charlie swallows nervously. “What happened?” he asks.

“He fell,” Billy says. “Not off the roof, but through a hole in the floor we were on.”

“Jesus, Billy,” Charlie says, reaching up to scrub his hand over his face. 

“Emil was there,” Billy continues. “He owned part of the building, he was there checking on construction. He saw Jasper fall. Saw me there too. I knew I didn’t do anything, I didn’t push him or anything, it was just an accident, but we were trespassing. And Emil said he thought that he could use someone like me to help him with some jobs. If I didn’t, he’d tell the police I was there, and that he’d heard me and Jasper arguing before he fell.”

“He’d tell the police you pushed him,” Charlie says, and Billy nods. 

“I wish that I’d just told him to fuck off and do whatever he wants,” Billy says.

“Does he…” Charlie makes a bit of a face, bobbing his head. “Hurt you?”

“No,” Billy says, looking at Charlie. “He’s just an asshole, and I’m tired of him.” He takes a bite of pizza. “So what happens?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Charlie murmurs.

“With this,” Billy says.

Charlie frowns a bit. “With…” He waves his hand between them. “With us?” he asks, confused.

Billy slowly smiles. “I…didn’t know there was an _us_ , Charlie,” he says. “But tell me more.” He shifts in his seat, looking at Charlie.

Charlie can feel his face reddening. “Wha— what do you mean, then?” he asks, embarrassed.

“With the— case or whatever it’s called,” Billy says. “Where— so you’ve met, twice. When do you arrest him?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie murmurs, picking up his beer bottle.

“Ohh, Charlie,” Billy says. “You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I’m not.”

“I did offer to fuck you the last time I was here,” Billy says, and Charlie coughs on his drink, “so if anyone should be embarrassed, it’s me.”

Charlie keeps coughing, taking another drink to soothe his throat, and then he wipes at his mouth with a napkin. “You don’t really seem like the embarrassed type.”

“Not really,” Billy says, laughing softly. “Life’s too short for bullshit like that.” 

Charlie looks at Billy, trying to not be amused by him. He still can’t believe he’s invited a gang member in for supper. God, Charlie will never be able to work again if anybody finds out. But honestly, there’s just a part of him that’s happy to have company. And really, for a criminal (though Charlie’s still not entirely sure what Billy’s crimes are, besides trespassing), Billy’s not that bad.

They finish eating, and Billy pushes his chair back from the table.

“Going so soon?” Charlie asks, and he can hear in his voice how eager he is to ask Billy to stay.

“Probably for the best,” Billy says, smiling at him. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome. And— well. I know you don’t trust me, but, you _can_.” He nudges the folded piece of paper back towards Charlie. “I didn’t make copies or anything, that’s yours. I just wanted to give it back.” He walks over to the balcony, then looks back at Charlie. “I know we got off on the wrong foot,” he says.

Charlie smiles. “Is there a parkour joke in there somewhere?” he asks. “I think so.”

“Ugh, god,” Billy says, rolling his eyes, but then he smiles at Charlie. “Just take care of yourself, yeah?”

“What?” Charlie asks. “You don’t plan on seeing me again?”

Billy shrugs. “I won’t be at the next meeting, remember? You told me not to.”

“Right,” Charlie says.

“But be safe,” Billy continues. “Emil might not know you’re a police officer, but that doesn’t mean he likes you.”

“Oh, I disagree,” Charlie says, crossing his arms. “I’m pretty likeable.”

Billy laughs loudly. “Alright, Charlie,” he says, stepping out onto the balcony. “Whatever you say. Goodnight!”

Charlie walks over to the doors, watching Billy leave this time. He blows out a breath, studying him. “Wow,” he says softly, smiling when Billy gets to the ground, waving back up at the flat. Charlie waves as well, and then closes the doors.

\+ + + + +

Charlie glances up at the sign for Prufrock Coffee, and then pulls open the door. He quickly glances around, and sees Emil sitting at one of the tables, Gordan beside him. Charlie nods and walks to the counter, ordering a coffee, and then takes it over to the table, sitting down across from Emil. “Hello,” he says, nodding at them both. He takes a sip of coffee, and gives them a small smile. “How are you?”

“Well,” Emil says. “Today is a good day.”

“Is it?” Charlie asks. “Why is that?”

“Because today I become a rich man,” Emil says, then he smiles at Gordan. “Well, an even _richer_ man.”

Charlie’s brow furrows a bit in confusion, but he tries to cover it up with an excited smile. “You— you are?” he asks. “Does that mean…”

“Yes,” Emil says. “I like you, Mr. Davies. I like your dedication to good art.”

“Thank you,” Charlie says. “That’s— well, thank you.” He shifts in his seat, his stomach starting to twist a bit, and he takes a sip of coffee, hoping to cover up his nervousness.

“I’ll like you better when you give me 200 million pounds.”

Charlie coughs on his coffee. “Beg pardon?” he asks, voice a bit raspy.

“That's how much I want,” Emil says. “It’s a very expensive painting.”

“It’s not worth that much,” Charlie says.

“It’s worth whatever someone is willing to pay for it,” Emil says. “My men and I took a lot of risks to acquire this painting; not just anyone could do what they did.”

“I— I know that,” Charlie says, “and I appreciate that. But it’s worth— nowhere near that.”

Emil just stares at Charlie. “And I have someone who’s willing to pay more.”

Charlie looks back at him. “Then why— why offer it to me?” he asks.

Emil takes a sip of his drink, and then shrugs. “I like you more,” he says.

Charlie swallows hard; he doesn’t like the sound of that. Emil is not the kind of person that Charlie wants to be liked by.

“You, you appreciate the art,” Emil continues. “I know that with you, it will be in the hands of a man who understands its importance, the beauty of Velázquez. The other buyer, they—” He waves his hand dismissively. “They will not even keep it; just…sell to the next highest bidder. They have no interest in art, only money.” He smiles at Charlie. “This can be done this afternoon, if you’re willing. Otherwise, we go, and the painting comes with us.”

Charlie frowns, tilting his head to the side. He shifts in his seat, trying to subtly move his chest so that the microphone can clearly pick up their voices; the other officers waiting outside need to hear this. “The painting?” he asks. “You have it?”

Emil and Gordan look at each other, and then Gordan slowly nods, and subtly looks beneath the table.

Charlie gentle clears his throat and shifts in his chair, also looking beneath the table; he sees a black plastic tube with a handle attached, and he looks back across the table at Emil. “You brought it,” he says softly in disbelief.

Emil smiles. “I am serious about selling it to you, Mr. Davies,” he says, and he nudges Gordan with his elbow. “All you need is to transfer the funds, and you can walk out of here with it.”

Gordan turns and grabs another bag off the floor, a backpack, and he takes out a laptop, opening it, logging in, and then he turns it around, pushing it towards Charlie. “Log in,” Gordan says, and Charlie nods, pulling the laptop a bit closer. 

Charlie opens Chrome, and then quickly types— there is no bank account with 200 million pounds just sitting in it, waiting for him. He has _no_ idea what the fuck—

Emil and Gordan start scrambling across from him, and Charlie looks up at them, and then glances towards the door, doing a double take as five police officers walking into the cafe. Charlie immediately puts his hands up, and groans when his arms are roughly grabbed by the one of the officers, twisted behind his back. The officer pushes Charlie down against the table as he’s handcuffed, and Charlie squeezes his eyes shut.

“What’s going on?” Charlie asks. “What are you arresting me for?” He’s tugged out of his chair, and his foot gets caught on the leg, dragging it a couple feet away from the table. He looks desperately at Emil and Gordan, trying to look as believably shocked and confused as possible. “Emil?” he asks, looking at him. “What’s going on? Wha—what did you do?”

Emil and Gordan are handcuffed as well, and another police officer reaches beneath the table, picking up the plastic tube with the painting inside, and Charlie starts to struggle. 

“That’s— that’s mine!” Charlie exclaims. “Don’t— don’t you dare!”

The police officer opens the door and shoves Charlie outside. Once they’re out of earshot of the others, Charlie looks at the officer. He keeps struggling in his arms, but says softly, “guess you heard that, then.”

“We certainly did,” the officer says, opening the back door of the police car. “Watch your head.” He reaches up, pushing Charlie’s head down as he climbs into the backseat.

Charlie shifts in the backseat, trying to get his legs and arms comfortable, and he looks around. The door to the cafe opens, and Emil and Gordan are each led out as well, guided to separate cars. Charlie starts struggling again, loudly pleading to be let go, hoping that Emil hears him.

The police officer looks at Charlie in the rearview mirror, smiling faintly. “I can’t believe they brought it,” he says, and Charlie has to fight to not smile back.

\+ + + + +

The performance had to be convincing; Charlie was taken with Emil and Gordan to the police station, led into an interrogation room, kept there for hours. A barrister even arrived, sitting in with Charlie as they spoke. Gordan was taken away, and then Charlie was as well. Except Charlie was taken to a hotel for a couple nights, just to ensure that his flat was safe to go back to.

As he waited in the hotel room for time to pass, he thought about Billy, and how much he knew about what had happened. If he’d gone by Charlie’s flat, expecting him to be there. If he’d heard about the arrests. Charlie has no way of contacting Billy, short of how he met him that first day, just wandering the streets of London until he happens to run into him. Charlie doesn’t count on that happening twice.

Charlie is eventually allowed to go back to his flat, and he walks in almost expecting to see Billy sitting at his kitchen table, eating more pizza. But his flat is empty, and Charlie feels sort of alone.

He Skypes back to Midsomer, talking to John and Sarah, unable to give them the details, but assuring them that he thinks his first major undercover operation went well. They congratulate him, and have a drink in his honour, and he promises to come back to Midsomer soon to visit, once all the paperwork and reports on this case are done and submitted.

Charlie stays up a bit later that first night, sitting on his sofa, watching television. He can’t tell if it’s fear, or if it’s hope; he wants to be awake if Billy comes back, but he wants to be ready in case somebody else does as well. But nobody comes. While he’s getting ready for bed, pacing around the bathroom as he brushes his teeth, Charlie grabs a piece of tissue to wipe at his nose, sniffling a bit. He drops it in the bin, and then frowns a bit, a flash of red catching his eye. He reaches down, carefully pushing a couple tissues out of the way, finding one of shoved towards the bottom of the bin, covered with dried blood. 

Charlie spits his toothpaste out and puts his toothbrush down before he gingerly reaches in, picking up the bloody tissue by the corner. It’s not his— Charlie can’t remember the last time he bled like this. The last time he nicked himself shaving, it wasn’t like this. It was also long enough ago that the tissue was long gone. No, someone else was in his flat, Charlie realizes, and he swallows hard.

\+ + + + +

It’s been a couple days, and Charlie still hasn’t heard a thing from Billy, or anyone else. It seems, at least for now, that there’s no threat. To him. But whose blood was it? He assumes it must have been Billy’s, but then why did he leave? Why not stay and wait for him? Why not come back?

Charlie’s not in the mood to cook, and he’s really not in the mood to go outside either. Not just because he doesn’t want to see anyone, but because it’s also lovely weather for ducks out there. He calls his order into the restaurant, and then he sighs, leaning against the doorframe, looking out over the balcony at the grey sky and wet streets, and he has no idea how this happened, that he started missing— not even just missing, but… _wanting_? Billy. Charlie shakes his head, and walks back over to the sofa, curling up with a blanket until he gets a message from the restaurant that his delivery driver is downstairs, please buzz him up. 

Charlie walks over to the door and hits the buzzer, pacing a bit as he waits for the knock as his door. Finally it comes, and he walks over, unlocking it and pulling it open. “Billy?” he asks in surprise. Then he sees the bruises and the cuts on Billy’s face, how one of his eyes is swollen, and he says Billy’s name again, softer.

“Smells like fish and chips,” Billy says, holding up the bag. “Hope there’s enough to share.”

“What—” Charlie blinks a couple times.

“Don’t worry,” Billy says, “I paid. Told them I was your boyfriend, coming up to meet you anyway.”

“Jesus,” Charlie says, and he steps aside, watching Billy walk into the flat, his mouth turning sour as he realizes that Billy’s limping. “I— Billy, what happened?”

“Can I warm up first?” Billy asks, glancing over at him, setting the bag down on the table.

Charlie doesn’t know what to say, so he just closes the door behind him, making sure it’s locked, and he walks over to Billy, resting his hand on the table as he studies him. “Billy, I…” He swallows hard, trying to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. “Was that your blood?” he asks, glancing towards the bathroom.

Billy glances over as well, and he nods. “Came by, you weren’t here,” he says. “Waited a bit, but I thought the longer I stayed, the more dangerous it would be for you.” 

“What the hell happened?” Charlie asks.

“Can I borrow a jumper?” Billy asks, looking down at his clothes, and it’s then that Charlie realizes that Billy’s absolutely soaked, hair stuck to his forehead. “It’s cold.”

“Yes, of course,” Charlie says, and he hurries into his bedroom, grabbing a jumper, a pair of joggers, and some thick socks as well. When he walks back out into the flat, Billy’s standing in the kitchen, shirtless. Charlie swallows hard, torn between appreciating Billy’s body for what it is— toned, well-muscled, and wincing at what it currently looks like— bruised, black and blue. “Billy,” Charlie says softly.

Billy looks over at him. “You didn’t need to— socks? Thanks,” he says softly.

“Billy, I…” Charlie shakes his head, and he sets the clothing down on the kitchen table, and he reaches his hands out to Billy, gently tracing his fingers over the bruises, feeling Billy shiver beneath him. “You need to go A&E.”

“I’m fine,” Billy says, looking down at Charlie’s hands, then back up, meeting his eyes. “It doesn’t hurt too bad. Anymore.”

Charlie frowns a bit, and reaches his hand up to Billy’s face. “Can I?” he asks gently.

Billy shrugs. “I…sure.” He looks away when Charlie gently brushes his fingers over the cut on Billy’s temple. “Careful,” Billy says, and Charlie nods. 

“This is bad, Billy,” Charlie says. “What— you’ve got to tell me who did it.”

Billy scoffs. “Why? So you can go arrest them? Trust me, that will just make it worse.”

“Make what worse?” Charlie asks. “What’s happened?”

Billy opens his mouth as if to answer, but then he closes it again, shaking his head. “I…can I get changed first?” he asks. “Maybe have a bite to eat?”

“Billy,” Charlie says.

“I’ll tell you, I will,” Billy insists, “but just…I’m cold and hungry.”

Charlie looks at Billy, and then nods. He glances back towards the bathroom. “I— go have a shower.”

“What?” Billy asks.

“A warm one,” Charlie says. “I’ll order more food, that’s— not enough for the both of us. Relax, try to be…calm.” He gives Billy a small smile. “I’ll get out of my first aid kit, take care of you all proper.”

“Charlie,” Billy says.

“What else do you want to eat?” Charlie asks. “Is fish and chips alright, or— I can get more pizza. Anything you like.”

“Charlie, I can’t stay,” Billy says. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” Charlie asks.

“Try to take care of me,” Billy says. “It won’t work.”

Charlie looks at Billy in confusion. “I— why? What’s going on?” He blinks quickly a couple times. “I— forgive me, Billy, but I don’t think I understand.” He looks at Billy, can feel the way his mouth is turned down; he must look pathetic.

Billy looks like he wants to say one thing, but instead he says, “I’ll…” He looks towards the bathroom. “Do you have a towel?” he asks. “For the shower, I mean.”

“Yes, of course,” Charlie says, and he gently takes hold of Billy’s wrist, leading him over to the bathroom. He flicks on the light and looks over at Billy, his bruises looking even worse in the bright lighting. Charlie purses his lips a bit and swallows hard, but then he clears his throat. “Towels are here,” Charlie says, and he opens a cupboard on the wall. “Use anything in there that you’d like. Take as long as you’d like. I…” He looks at Billy. “Please don’t lock the door,” he says softly.

“I’m not going to kill myself,” Billy says.

“I— know that,” Charlie says. “I just meant, if you fall, or hurt yourself. I don’t want to have to break down the door.”

Billy smiles faintly. “Sure,” he says, “whatever.”

“What do you want to eat?” Charlie asks. “Just more fish and chips?”

Billy nods. “If— yeah, if you…I don’t have— okay.”

“Okay,” Charlie says. “Let me just—” He sort of awkwardly spins around, and then opens one of the cupboards, taking out some of his first aid stuff, giving Billy a smile. “I’ll be out there,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Okay,” Billy says softly, and Charlie nods, looking back down at Billy’s chest before he walks out of the bathroom, blowing out a heavy breath as he pulls the door closed. 

Charlie sets the bandages and ointment down on the coffee table, and then he grabs his mobile, placing another order of fish and chips, ordering more than he thinks even the two of them can eat. He looks in the cupboards and the refrigerator, seeing if there’s anything else he thinks he needs, but it should be alright for the next couple days. He can go get groceries tomorrow if Billy needs something else. 

Charlie paces around the flat, checking and double-checking that the door is locked, and that the balcony is locked (how did Billy get in while Charlie was away, he wonders), and checking the time, wondering if Billy will be done in the shower before or after the food gets here. A couple times, he walks over to the bathroom door, just to see if he can hear Billy, or any sounds of pain. Once, he hears Billy softly humming to himself, and Charlie smiles.

Charlie’s curled up on the sofa when the bathroom door opens behind him, and Charlie glances back, then does a double-take. He pushes himself up, looking at Billy, a towel wrapped around his hips, wet hair pushed back, chest wet and shining in the light of Charlie’s flat. Charlie’s mouth feels dry, and he swallows hard, still staring at him, looking at how low the towel is sitting on Billy’s hips.

“Sorry,” Billy says, taking another couple steps out of the bathroom. “We left the clothes out here.”

“Oh,” Charlie says, glancing over to the kitchen table. “I’m sorry. Uh, it might be best— come here for a second, if that’s alright? So I can see you— your…bruises better.”

Billy hesitates for a moment, rocking back on his feet, but then he walks over to Charlie, standing in front of him, looking down at him.

Charlie’s mouth falls opens a bit, looking up at Billy, and then he makes a noise, moving a bit to the right, patting the spot on the sofa next to him. “Here,” he says, and as Billy sits, Charlie leans forward to grab the small container of arnica ointment, holding it up to Billy. 

“What is that?” Billy asks, shifting a bit uncomfortably, holding onto his towel, watching Charlie unscrew the lid.

“Arnica is a homeopathic herb,” Charlie says.

“Yeah, and?” Billy asks.

“It’s for bruises,” Charlie says. “May I?”

Billy looks at Charlie, and back at the ointment, and nods. “I’ve got so many bruises, you might have to just rub the whole thing on me,” he says, and Charlie smiles.

“I’ll just start with the worst ones,” Charlie says, and he starts by looking at Billy’s head, thinking that he’ll put something antibacterial on the cut on his temple. Charlie moves his eyes down over Billy’s arms, and then he looks at his chest. Charlie shifts closer to him, dipping his fingers into the ointment, gently rubbing it on a bruise on Billy’s ribs. Billy flinches a bit, and Charlie looks up at him, realizing then just how close they are. “Sorry,” Charlie says softly. “I’ll be more gentle.”

“It’s okay,” Billy says. “It was just a surprise.” He shifts on the sofa, moving just a bit closer to Charlie, turning more towards him as Charlie rubs the ointment over Billy’s skin.

“What about on this side,” Charlie murmurs, mostly to himself, and he gets a bit more ointment, reaching over to rub it on a bruise on the left side of Billy’s torso. Charlie swallows hard; the way he’s sat, arm stretched out over Billy’s body, he’s face-to-face with Billy’s chest. His muscled, defined, _strong_ chest. Charlie sits back up quickly, looking back at the ointment container.

“Charlie,” Billy says, and Charlie waits a moment before he looks up. Billy shifts closer to him again, and he reaches out, putting his hand on Charlie’s. “You can touch me,” he says softly.

“Wh— where?” Charlie asks. “Does the bruise hurt?”

“Not with that,” Billy says, and he reaches out with his other hand, taking the ointment from Charlie, setting it down. “Just touch me with…you.” His eyes flick down to Charlie’s lips, and he lifts his hand, pushing it through Charlie’s hair, gently gripping it between his fingers. “Kiss me,” Billy says, but he doesn’t wait for Charlie to move before he leans in, pressing his lips to Charlie’s. 

It takes a moment for Charlie to react, he’s shocked, he— he doesn’t even know what to say, or think, but he knows that he’s not doing a great job of snogging Billy back right now, so he reaches a hand up, gently cradling Billy’s head, holding him steady as they kiss. Billy licks at Charlie’s mouth, and Charlie moans, leaning forward to deepen the kiss, Billy’s fingers tightening in Charlie’s hair. They’re practically intertwined with each other, curled against each other on the sofa, kissing, hands roaming, until Charlie’s mobile goes off.

Charlie pulls back reluctantly, just for Billy to pull him back in, nipping at Charlie’s lips. “Billy, I— the food,” Charlie says, managing to pull back. “I have to let them in.” Charlie stands up and grabs his mobile, confirming that it is the restaurant, and he walks over to the front door to buzz them in. 

Billy takes a deep breath, and nods, waiting a couple moments before he pushes himself up, walking over to the kitchen table. As Charlie opens the door, taking the food and paying, Billy grabs the dry clothes, walking into the bathroom to finish drying off and getting changed. When he comes back out, Charlie’s got the food out on the table, and is standing at the refrigerator.

“What do you want to drink?” Charlie asks, glancing over at Billy, smiling as he takes in the sight of him wearing Charlie’s clothes. “Beer?”

“Sure,” Billy says, nodding. He sits down at the table, slinging his elbow over the back of the chair, watching as Charlie grabs a couple cans of Boddingtons, handing one over to Billy.

“We didn’t finish—”

Billy cocks his head to the side, smirking at Charlie. “Finish what?” he asks, before he pops open the beer.

Charlie blinks and makes a bit of an awkward face as he sits down at the table. “The ointment,” Charlie says.

“Oh,” Billy says, shrugging and taking a sip. “Don’t worry, I’ll be alright.”

“Will you?” Charlie asks. “Please tell me what happened.”

Billy shifts in his chair, dropping his arm back down to his side, and he moves in a bit closer to the table. “I said I’d tell you after I ate,” he says. “Is that still alright?”

“That depends,” Charlie says sharply, and Billy looks at him, surprised. “Is someone about to start shooting their way through my door? Are we at risk here?”

“No,” Billy says, picking up the small packet of vinegar. “And no. They don’t—” He shakes his head, opening the vinegar, pouring it over his plate. He picks up a chip, and then opens his small container of tartar sauce, cutting off a piece of fish, dipping it in. He chews for a moment, and then takes a sip of beer. “They don’t suspect you,” he says, taking another piece of fish.

Charlie looks at Billy, watching him eat. He’s starving too, and their food looks and smells delicious, but he can’t bring himself to take a bite; he needs to hear more, he needs to know what happened to Billy. “Then who do they suspect?” he asks.

Billy rolls his eyes, looking across the table at Charlie. “Who do you think?” he asks sarcastically. “You think I just got the shit kicked out of me for fun?”

“Billy, I—”

Billy pushes his plate away from him, and leans back in his seat. “You were all arrested. Emil and Gordan talked to their lawyers. Their lawyers talked to Ela. Emil doesn’t think you’re an undercover cop, he thinks I’m a fucking informant. That I did it to get back at him. He knows what my name is.” He takes another drink, shaking his head. “He thinks that’s why I left the meetings, that I was being suspicious. That’s what he fucking said.”

“So they beat you,” Charlie says.

Billy nods. “Sure did. Told me they’d kill me next time they saw me.”

“Billy—”

“I couldn’t leave without seeing you first,” Billy says. “How bloody stupid is that? I took the fall for you, and still, I just wanted to make sure that you’re alright.”

Charlie’s mind is racing. He wants to offer to reveal himself, but he knows that’s a terrible, dangerous idea. Then his mind catches up with Billy’s words. “Leave?” he asks.

Billy just looks at Charlie, and then looks away, giving a small nod.

“Where are you going?” Charlie asks.

Billy shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“What?” Charlie asks. “Why not?”

Billy looks back at Charlie. “Because if Emil finds out you know, I don’t want you to be able to tell him anything.”

“I would never,” Charlie says, shaking his head.

Billy slaps his hand down on the table, and Charlie jumps a bit. “How many nails do you think could be pulled out before you’d tell them whatever they wanted to hear?” he asks, and Charlie’s eyes narrow as he leans in, looking at Billy’s hand; he hadn’t noticed it before, but he’s missing a fingernail. Charlie swallows hard, and looks back up at Billy. “I’m so sorry, Billy,” he says.

“I don’t need your apologies,” Billy says, pulling the sleeve of Charlie’s jumper down over his hand. “And I don’t blame you. I’m not a fucking idiot, I knew how many different ways this could go wrong. I’m just here— I came here to say goodbye. And to tell you that I’m alright.” He looks at Charlie, sighing softly. “And to see that you were alright.”

“I am,” Charlie says, nodding. “I— on our end, at least, everything went according to plan.”

“Good,” Billy says. “That’s good.” He picks up a chip, taking a bite of it. He chews slowly, and then looks over at Charlie, giving him a tiny smile. “I— well, I admit that I was sort of worried.”

“About me?” Charlie asks, and Billy nods. “Thank you.” Billy nods again, taking another chip. “I don’t want you to go anywhere,” Charlie says. “If you stay, we can figure it out. I can help.”

Billy shakes his head. “Please don’t say that,” he says. “It’s— it’s fine. London’s a bit shit anyway, I’ll be alright.”

“Billy—”

“Please stop,” Billy says sharply, and Charlie looks at him for a moment before he finally just nods, picking up his drink. Billy takes a big bite of fish, chewing. “Probably my last proper fish and chips for awhile,” he says. “Fucking delicious.”

“Yeah,” Charlie says, voice a bit rough. “It’s not so bad.”

“So, what’s Midsomer like?” Billy asks.

Charlie looks at him in surprise, then smiles. “It’s lovely,” he says. 

“Yeah?” Billy asks. “Probably a bit quieter than London.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Charlie says, taking a bite of fish. He chews and then continues, “there were probably a lot more murders there than you’d expect.”

“I wouldn’t expect any, really,” Billy says, “so you’re probably right. Why leave, then? Is undercover work really want you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie shrugs. “Not forever. But I was there for awhile, in Midsomer, and I learned a lot from my partner, and I just wanted to learn something new.”

“Would you ever go back?” Billy asks.

“I don’t know,” Charlie says. “I suppose it depends on what there is to keep me in London.” He looks at Billy, and Billy just looks away. “Do you have anyone?” Charlie asks hesitantly. “To keep you here in London?”

Billy lets out a surprised laugh, looking back at Charlie. “Are you asking me if I’m dating anyone?” he asks. “Really?”

“Just making conversation,” Charlie says quietly, picking at his fish. 

“No,” Billy says. “I— of course not. Would I be here with you if I was dating someone else? Sit here— kissing like that on your sofa?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie says. 

“No,” Billy says again, “I wouldn’t.”

Charlie nods slowly as he chews. “But there’s nothing to make you stay,” he says, and Billy just doesn’t reply.

They keep eating; at one point, Billy tries to push his plate away, saying he’s done, but Charlie tells him that it’s alright to keep eating, it’s cold out, and he should make sure he’s full before he goes.

“I wish I’d gotten something for pudding,” Charlie says. “I could run out?”

“No, please,” Billy says. “I’m alright.”

“Alright,” Charlie says, watching Billy, nodding. 

“Let me help you clean up,” Billy says suddenly, pushing his chair back.

“No, please,” Charlie says, standing up as well. “I— we can just leave it. I’ll tidy up tomorrow. You— sit, on the sofa. Get comfortable. You’re still hurt.”

“Charlie—”

“No, please,” Charlie says, giving Billy a quick smile as he picks up Billy’s plate. “Please. Stay. Just— you don’t have to leave yet, do you?”

Billy shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Charlie says. He puts their dishes in the sink and rinses out their bottles. He pours a couple glasses of water and walks over to the sofa, setting them down on the coffee table in front of Billy. “Do you need any— a blanket? Are you cold?”

“No, I’m better now,” Billy says, bringing his feet up onto the sofa, wearing Charlie’s thick socks.

“Okay,” Charlie says again. He shifts on his feet; he wants to— he feels like reaching down and pressing a kiss to Billy’s head, or reaching out to touch him again. He swallows hard, and instead just reaches up to touch his own lips, thinking about their kiss. He walks into his bedroom, pretending as though there’s something in there he needs, but really he just paces around a bit, sort of frantic. He feels like— leaving? Billy’s _leaving_? And Charlie can’t help him? Emil is in prison, but he still wins? 

Charlie just shakes his head. He drops down on his bed, feeling defeated. He doesn’t know how he would describe his feelings for Billy; it’s certainly not _love_ , that’s a bit strong. Well, more than a bit. It’s ridiculous. But he certainly feels _something_ for him. And judging by that kiss, and the fact that Billy’s been worried about him for the last few days, he thinks that Billy feels something for him too.

Charlie looks up when he hears a creak, and he sees Billy standing in the doorway, watching him. “Sorry,” Charlie says, jumping up. “I— I was looking for something, and I—”

Billy steps into the bedroom, and closes the door behind him. “It’s alright,” he says. “I know that’s not true.”

“You do?” Charlie asks, and Billy nods, taking another couple steps towards him. “I— you should be— back on the sofa. Go rest. Let me get you another pillow or something.” He turns around, grabbing a pillow off his bed, but when he turns back around, Billy’s even closer to him, fingers playing with the drawstring on his joggers. Charlie’s joggers. Billy’s not small by any means, but he looks like he’s swimming in Charlie’s clothes. Charlie swallows hard. “Are you leaving?” he asks softly.

Billy shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says.

“No?” Charlie asks, and he can hear the hopeful tone in his voice.

“No,” Billy says, and he shifts on his feet before he reaches down, tugging his jumper over his head, looking around before he stretches his arm out, setting it down on the floor, out of the way.

“Billy,” Charlie says, dropping the pillow back down. He swallows as he looks Billy’s chest; even though he literally just saw him shirtless— what, less than an hour ago? The bruises still catch his attention, but… “Wow,” Charlie says, and then he briefly closes his eyes, realizing he’d said it out loud.

“I’m just realizing something,” Billy says with a smile.

“What’s that?” Charlie asks, looking down as Billy steps even closer still, reaching up to rest his hands on his chest.

“You’d be absolutely terrible to play strip poker with,” Billy says. “How many— are you wearing _three_ shirts?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charlie says, and Billy laughs.

“I’m just being an arse,” Billy says, and he smiles brightly up at Charlie before he leans up, giving him a kiss. He moans, sliding his hands up to Charlie’s neck, pulling him down closer. 

“Billy,” Charlie breathes out before he deepens the kiss, wrapping his arm around Billy’s waist, pulling him. 

Billy licks at Charlie’s mouth, moving against him, and he slides one hand back down over Charlie’s body to hook into the waistband of his trousers.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Charlie says, pulling back again. “Your bruises, I—” 

“I’ll be fine,” Billy says. “I think I’ll be pretty distracted.” He kisses Charlie again. “Do you usually bottom, or…”

“Oh,” Charlie says, trailing off a bit.

“Oh,” Billy says. “Uh, do you— am I— I’m not the first bloke you’ve—”

“ _First_?” Charlie asks. “No, no. I— I just don’t do it a lot. I haven’t really been with anyone in awhile.”

“Okay,” Billy says. “I guess I should ask if you— do you have a condom? Lube?”

Charlie swallows hard, and then sits down on his bed, reaching out to the nightstand, tugging open the drawer. It feels like he’s shaking as he does so. “That’s a good question,” he says to himself. “I— when I moved, I—”

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Billy says, and he reaches down, tugging off his socks. He stands in front of Charlie, looking down at him. “I can work without.” He reaches out, brushing his fingers through Charlie’s hair. “It might just be a bit more fun with.”

Charlie pulls out a small plastic container, looking it over. “Does lube go bad?” he asks, and Billy laughs.

“God, it really has been awhile, hasn’t it?” Billy asks, taking the lube from him. 

“I…” Charlie shrugs. “You haven’t been to Midsomer,” he says.

“No cute blokes over there?” Billy asks.

Charlie smiles faintly. “Not like you.” He swallows. “Besides, I was too busy.”

“Right, solving all your murders,” Billy says. “I remember now.” He sets the lube down on the nightstand and then closes the drawer. “No condoms?” Charlie shakes his head. “That’s alright.” Billy leans down, giving him a kiss. “You really are something else, you know.”

“Is that a good thing?” Charlie asks, and Billy nods. Charlie leans forward, pressing a kiss to Billy’s stomach, and then another, moving his mouth over Billy, looking up to meet his eyes. Billy pushes his fingers through Charlie’s hair, holding him close as Charlie keeps kissing him. Charlie rests his hands on Billy’s hips, and then he curls his fingers into the drawstring of his joggers, untying it with a quick movement.

“Are you sure?” Billy asks suddenly, and Charlie pulls back, looking up at him again. “I know I sort of— well, I really just showed up at your flat and ate all your food, and I know we kissed but that doesn’t mean you have to— that _we_ have to do this. Or anything.”

Charlie blinks a couple times, feeling a bit sad. “Are you still leaving?” he asks.

Billy looks a bit sad too, and he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I have to. It’ll be better that way."

Charlie swallows and nods. “Then yes,” he says, “I’m sure. Is there anything you want me to do?” he asks. “Or, what don’t you like?”

Billy smiles. “I’ll like whatever you want to do,” he says. “It’s been awhile, we can go slow.”

Charlie nods again and goes back to kissing Billy’s stomach, and he hooks his fingers under the waistband of Billy’s joggers, starting to tug them down. Charlie moves his mouth down as more of Billy’s body is revealed, and Charlie swallows hard, trying to wet his mouth as he takes Billy’s cock in his hand. He’s not fully hard yet, but Charlie strokes him a couple times before he opens his mouth around him, sucking gently.

Billy gasps softly, fingers gently tightening in Charlie’s hair, but he doesn’t push him down or force him to take more of him in, he just holds onto him, bracing himself. “God, Charlie,” Billy murmurs. “You— ah,” he gasps softly, fingers scratching against Charlie’s scalp. “That’s—” He swallows hard. “I— god, you’re really fit.”

Charlie smiles at that, despite himself, and he pulls back, still stroking Billy, pressing a couple soft, wet kisses to the tip of Billy’s cock. “Thank you,” he says, glancing up at Billy, and Billy smiles back, moving his hand to smooth it over Charlie's cheek.

“You’re welcome,” Billy says. “I…I think you’re the first police officer I’ve ever slept with.”

“Ha,” Charlie says, still moving his hand up and down Billy’s shaft, fingers teasing over the head. “Sleeping with the enemy.”

“You’re not so bad,” Billy says softly. “With enemies like you, who needs friends?”

Charlie’s smile grows at that. “I think you’ll find it’s the other way around.”

“I said what I said,” Billy says.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Charlie asks.

“Whatever you want,” Billy says gently. “I’ve got the fittest guy from Midsomer here in bed with me, I’m pretty happy either way.”

Charlie pulls back from Billy, and then stands up so quickly that Billy takes a step back in surprise.

“What’s this?” Billy asks, looking up at him.

Charlie cups Billy’s face in his hands, and then leans in. He’s about to press his lips to Billy’s, before he stops. “Is this alright?” he whispers, and Billy nods, so Charlie kisses him. Billy moans against Charlie’s mouth, tilting his head back as Charlie deepens the kiss, and Charlie moves his hands down over Billy’s back, over his waist, pushing Billy’s joggers the rest of his way down over his hips until they fall down on their own, and Billy steps out of them. “You should—” Charlie tries to speak but Billy leans back in, kissing him again desperately. “Do you want to get in bed?” Charlie asks, and Billy nods, stepping back to climb onto the mattress, Charlie watching Billy’s ass as he does.

Billy turns to look back at Charlie, getting settled on the bed, smiling as Charlie unbuttons his shirt. “That’s one,” Billy says.

“Oh, stop it,” Charlie says. “I’m only wearing two.”

“But I bet you’ve worn three,” Billy says, reaching down to take himself in hand, lazily stroking himself. “Three shirts, a blazer, a jacket overtop that.” He chuckles softly, watching Charlie pull off his t-shirt next. “How many pairs of pants have you got on?”

Charlie laughs at that, reaching down to undo his trousers. “Just the one, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, shame,” Billy says, and he teases his fingers over the head of his cock as Charlie steps out of his trousers, and he can see how hard Charlie is through the fabric of his boxer briefs. Billy meets Charlie’s eyes, and he bites on his lip as Charlie moves his hands to the waistband of his underwear. 

Charlie makes a quick movement, reaching down to pull off his socks, and Billy groans loudly before he starts to laugh. “What?” Charlie asks, tossing one sock to the side, then the other.

“You know what,” Billy says. “You know, Charlie, I didn't think you’d be such a tease.”

“What do you mean?” Charlie asks, cocking his head to the side, pushing down his boxer briefs, stepping out of them, nudging them a bit to the side. 

“Holy shit,” Billy says softly, “I…” He blinks a couple times. “Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“Can you get on the bed, please?” Billy asks. “I— would really like that in my mouth right now.”

“Really?” Charlie asks, and Billy nods quickly, so Charlie climbs onto the mattress, barely making it on his back before Billy is crawling on top of him, kissing him deeply, starting to rock against him. “Billy,” Charlie says softly, running his hands down Billy’s back until his fingers grip at Billy’s ass.

Billy licks at Charlie’s mouth, curling his fingers into Charlie’s hair. “God, you’re— you’re fucking unreal,” Billy says, and he moves his mouth down over Charlie’s jaw to his neck, sucking on his skin. “I don’t want to let you go,” he says softly. Charlie’s not sure if he was supposed to have heard it or not, so he just swallows hard and doesn’t say anything. Billy shifts on Charlie’s body, moving back until he’s on the bed, kneeling between Charlie’s legs.

Charlie brushes his hand over Billy’s hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and Billy wraps his fingers around Charlie, opening his mouth to take him inside. “Oh, _god_ , Billy,” Charlie groans. It’s been— Charlie can’t even think about how long it’s been since he’s been with someone like this, he— his mind is cloudy, all he can focus on is the wet heat of Billy’s mouth, and the way his tongue moves as Billy sucks him further down. “I— oh, I— Billy, you—”

Billy moans, nodding as much as he can, moving further down Charlie’s cock, relaxing his jaw around him. Billy’s hands move to Charlie’s thighs, fingers digging into his skin, spreading him further apart as he slowly bobs up and down. 

“Billy,” Charlie gasps, head pressing back against his pillow, “fucking _fuck_.” He whines a bit, and reaches up to bite down on one of his knuckles, trying to quiet himself. 

Billy licks all over him as he pulls back, sucking on the head of Charlie’s cock, and then his eyes open and he pulls back, panting softly. “Lube,” he says, his low voice somehow sounding even lower and rougher. “Please,” he says, wetting his lips.

Charlie tries to catch his breath, and he just looks at Billy. “I— are you going to fuck me?” he asks.

“Do you want me to?” Billy asks, and he plays his fingers up and down over the soft skin of Charlie’s quivering thighs. “Messy without a condom.”

“What were you planning on doing, then?” Charlie asks.

Billy shrugs. “Sucking you off while I finger you until you come.” He looks down at Charlie. “Does that sound alright?”

Charlie blinks, and then nods. “Ye— yes,” he says.

Billy smiles. “Okay,” he says, “good. Me too. Can I have the lube then, please?”

Charlie nods again, but it takes him another couple seconds before he actually moves, grabbing the lube off the nightstand where Billy left it. He sits up a bit, reaching out to hand it to Billy, and Billy keeps smiling as he takes it from him.

“Do you like being eaten out?” Billy asks, shifting on the bed, moving further down until he’s laying on the mattress, looking up at Charlie.

“I—“ Charlie swallows. “Uh, sure,” he says.

“Really?” Billy asks. “You don’t sound sure. I don’t have to.”

“No, I want you to,” Charlie says. “If you want to.” 

“Okay!” Billy says cheerily, and Charlie just blinks up at the ceiling, wondering where the hell someone like Billy even came from. And why does he have to leave? Now, after they’ve really only just found each other? Charlie blinks again, because crying during a blowjob probably wouldn’t be the best thing he’s ever done; Billy probably wouldn’t appreciate it very much.

Charlie flinches a bit in surprise at the first touch of Billy’s tongue to him, and he feels Billy’s hand on his stomach, trying to soothe and calm him. Charlie’s eyes flutter as Billy’s tongue licks over him, and he can feel himself clenching. He feels sort of self-conscious, and his body is warm, but he tries to just keep taking deep breaths, letting the pleasure wash over him instead of focusing on his nerves and all the rest of it.

Billy groans against him before he pulls back to catch his breath, diving back in, pushing Charlie’s legs further apart so that he can lick further into him.

“Billy,” Charlie says softly, “I—” He swallows hard, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re— god, Billy.” He breathes heavily, pleasure winding its way up his spine, and he tosses his head from side to side, clutching at his bedsheets. “Billy.” His breath hitches, and Billy moans, the vibrations making Charlie shiver. “God, you— fuck— Billy, please, more, more. I—”

“I’ll get you there,” Billy says, pulling back, and he opens the top of the lube, squeezing some out onto his fingers. He gently traces his fingertips around Charlie, and then leans in, following the same path with the tip of his tongue. “Mm, is that strawberry?” he asks, lifting his head up to look at Charlie. 

“Oh god,” Charlie says, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I don’t know why I bought that.”

Billy just smiles, and ducks his head back down, licking at him some more. “Actually not that bad,” he murmurs, and then he pushes a finger against Charlie. “Relax, alright?” he says. “Just one, slowly.”

“Mm-hmm,” Charlie nods, and he shifts a bit, taking a deep breath. He can feel himself clenching immediately around Billy’s finger as it carefully pushes into him, and he takes another deep breath. “Okay,” he says.

“Good,” Billy nods, and he gently works his finger back and forth, licking around it.

“God,” Charlie shudder, “that’s— you’re— wow.”

Billy nods and moans, and Charlie’s hips shift against the bed, and he presses himself against Billy’s mouth without even meaning to. Billy keeps his tongue and lips moving, making Charlie shiver as he moves his finger a bit faster, pushing in just a bit further. By the time Billy pulls back, Charlie is breathing heavily, making tiny whimpers and whines. Billy gets a bit more lube on his fingers, and then pushes back in with two. “Does it hurt?” he asks, and Charlie shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “not— not hurt.”

“Tight, though,” Billy says, and Charlie doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just nods once and closes his eyes. Billy kisses the inside of Charlie’s thigh, and then curls his fingers, rubbing inside him.

“F— fuck!” Charlie cries out. “Fuck, fuck, Billy, I— ah.” His breath is shaky as Billy keeps rubbing him, pressing insistently against his prostate. “Billy, you— oh my god, you— your— wow.”

“That’s the third _wow_ I’ve gotten here,” Billy says. “If you’re not careful I’m going to get a _really_ big ego.”

Charlie huffs a laugh at that. “G— get? You mean you don’t already have one?”

“Ha ha,” Billy says flatly. “You know, that’s a lot of words for someone who’s getting fingered. I should do a better job of shutting you up.” He reaches up his hand, wiping the back of his mouth, and then he leans in, sucking Charlie’s cock again. 

Charlie feels like he can’t _breathe_ , oh my god, how is Billy this good at it? He starts curling his fingers inside Charlie with a rhythm, and then he starts matching his mouth to that rhythm, until Charlie’s brain feels like it’s about to leak out of his skull. He feels like he’s on fire, everything is good, _too_ good— he knows he told Billy it had been awhile, but that didn’t mean he thought he was going to come this soon. Charlie bites down on the inside of his lip, trying to distract himself, but Billy’s like a _god_ at this, his fingers trailing over Charlie’s balls, lightly scratching against them and making Charlie shiver. “Billy,” he gasps out, and Billy makes a noise of acknowledgement. “Billy, I— I really—” Billy’s fingers curl harder inside him, no longer rubbing against him, but just pressing there, and Charlie’s hips jerk up. He’s been trying this entire time not to thrust into Billy’s mouth, but he can’t help it now.

“I’m gonna— I—” Charlie just tosses his head from side to side; his muscles feel taut even as they shake, and his stomach is tense. “Billy, I— I can’t— you— I’m going to come.” Billy moans and nods, moving his mouth faster, but Charlie shakes his head. “No, I’m— now, in your mouth, I— is that okay? I—” Billy moans again, but still doesn’t pull off, and Charlie thinks he can’t have made it any clearer, so it better be okay. 

He lasts a bit longer than he expected, maybe a minute longer, but when he finally comes, he thinks it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He’s louder than he’s ever been, and he thrusts his hips up, he can’t help himself. Billy keeps his fingers in him, and it feels like Charlie will never stop coming as he clenches down around his digits. 

Billy just keeps swallowing around him, moaning as Charlie fills his mouth. He doesn’t pull off until Charlie’s hips have stilled a bit, and his noises have quieted. But even then, he doesn’t pull away all at once. Billy slowly moves off, licking over Charlie, cleaning him up, swallowing as he goes. As Charlie falls from his mouth, Billy presses a kiss to his hipbone, and then carefully pulls his fingers from Charlie, and Charlie shifts uncomfortably when he can feel himself still clenching around nothing. “That was fucking amazing,” Billy says after a couple moments, breaking the silence, and Charlie reaches up, rubbing at his eyes. Billy rests his head on Charlie’s hip for a moment, smiling. “Are you alive?” he asks softly.

“Yes,” Charlie says, and Billy laughs.

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” Billy says, looking up with a smile.

“That was—” Charlie shakes his head, and then blows out a breath. 

“Wow?” Billy offers, and Charlie rolls his eyes, trying not to laugh.

“I can’t do all that,” Charlie says, and Billy sits up, looking around for a place to wipe his fingers. “God. That was amazing.”

Billy shrugs, wiping his fingers on his thigh, and then he looks up at Charlie. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says. “I’m pretty open.” He waggles his eyebrows, and then climbs back onto Charlie’s lap. “Get it?”

“Yes,” Charlie says, settling his hands on Billy’s hips, looking up at him. He takes him in, all of him— the mussiness of his hair, the definition of his muscles, the ink of his tattoos, the dark blues and purples of his bruises, and the hardness of his cock, precum beading at the top. Charlie’s mouth waters, and he swallows hard. He reaches his hand out, wrapping it around Billy’s cock, and Billy immediately thrusts up into his grip, and rocks back against his hips. “This okay?” he asks, and Billy nods, but reaches back, grabbing the lube. 

“Just a bit,” Billy says, squeezing some out directly onto his skin, so that Charlie’s hand can slide over him with ease. “Oh, fuck,” Billy groans, and he thrusts up again and again into Charlie’s fist. “You—” Billy’s mouth hangs open as he pants softly. “Yes.”

“Billy,” Charlie moans, moving his fist faster. He shifts on the bed, sitting up a bit more, and he moves his other hand, gripping at Billy’s ass, giving it a shake before he stretches out his fingers, finding Billy’s hole and teasing over it.

“Oh, fuck,” Billy groans in surprise, pushing back against Charlie’s fingers. “Yes, Charlie, I—” He thighs clench around Charlie’s hips, and he rocks even faster, fucking himself back and forth between Charlie’s fist and his fingers.

When Billy comes, it’s quieter than Charlie expects, given how loud he is at everything else. But Charlie feels marked by where Billy’s come has landed on his chest, and he never wants to let him go. Billy curls forward over Charlie’s chest, snuggling against him, and Charlie wraps his arms around him, pressing a kiss to Billy’s shoulder. “I may need another shower,” Billy says, and Charlie smiles, nodding. “Join me?” he asks, and Charlie nods again. “Good,” Billy says, groaning as he rolls off of Charlie onto the bed, stretching out. 

As they both rest there beside each other, still catching their breath, Billy’s fingers reach out, finding Charlie’s, twisting together. Charlie looks over in surprise, about to say something, but Billy’s just looking up at the ceiling. Charlie thinks it looks like Billy’s eyes might be shining with tears, so he just closes his mouth, and he looks away.

Their shower is mostly just them standing under the stream of hot water, arms wrapped around each other, resting against each other. They clean up a bit, and Charlie helps dry Billy off, going to grab a bit more ointment for his bruises. They keep getting distracted by kisses, and happy smiles on both of their faces, but Charlie knows the moment is more bittersweet than anything. But he hopes that he can convince Billy to stay in the morning; that things will seem different in the light. 

Billy’s like a furnace when they get into bed together, curled up against Charlie’s side.

But the bed is cold when Charlie wakes up.

He sits up slowly, stretching his arm out. He looks around his room, seeing the clothes that Billy had been wearing the night before folded up neatly. Charlie’s eyes fill with tears, and he blinks, reaching up when they spill over his cheeks. He sniffles, and climbs out of bed, looking at the time. He has no idea how long Billy’s been gone for; he could have left as soon as Charlie fell asleep. It feels like a punch to gut, it makes him want to gasp out in pain. Charlie gets dressed slowly, and steps out into his flat, looking around. It’s empty, like he knew it would be, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

Charlie looks around, and walks over to the balcony. He plans on just peering out the glass, but he stops when he sees a note taped there. Charlie tugs it off the door, and reaches up, rubbing his eyes, trying to clear them of tears so that he can read it properly.

_I knew that if you’d asked me to stay this morning, I would’ve. So I couldn’t give you that chance. But I am sorry I didn’t say goodbye. I don’t really care what they would do to me, but if they found about you and us, I’d never forgive myself._

_Maybe in another life, right?_

_I’ll let you know when I’m safe._

_xx_

Charlie sits down on the floor by the balcony doors, and leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, more tears spilling over. He cries until he feels like he can’t breathe, he has to gasp around the lump in his throat, and then he cries some more.

\+ + + + +

Charlie decides he really hates undercover work. He hates London in general. He barely knew Billy, he knows that, he knows that if he told anybody else they’d probably laugh at him. But he can feel himself falling into a depression. He just wants to go back to Midsomer and live in a tiny cottage and never see anyone again. Which is stupid, he _knows_ , don’t tell him that. But it fucking hurts.

He starts going back into the office, though he’s been moved to a different one, one that Emil and his people won’t know to look for him at. Even besides his dreams of being all alone, he thinks about moving back to Midsomer just because he knows no one will think to look for him there. It’s safer. But he keeps thinking that Billy might come back to London.

Charlie goes into the office, heading straight to his desk. He pulls out his chair, sitting down heavily. He moves in closer to his desk, logging into his computer. He opens his email, checking a few; he flags a couple to reply, checks a couple off that don’t need his input, and then he scrolls down to his junk folder, seeing a couple emails there. One is a pretty obvious phishing scam; he sends it over to IT, letting them deal with it. The other, he doesn’t know what it is. The subject line reads _Arnica — The World’s Greatest Homeopathic Herb!_ It makes Charlie smile a bit, and though he’s sure it’s some ad for penis enlargement, he opens it anyway, thinking of the arnica ointment that he has at home. His smile fades when he reads the email. It’s one line, in what he thinks is Russian, _Yak tebe ne lyubyty, Kyieve miy!_

It’s the _B._ written afterwards that really catches Charlie’s attention though. 

Charlie copies and pastes the message into Google, the first result being a Wikipedia page. He clicks on it, scanning over the very short article. It’s a song title. _How Can I Not Love You, My Kiev?_

Charlie stares at it, Kiev, Kiev, Kiev, echoing over in his head. His eyes fill with tears, and he bites down on the inside of his lip. Kiev. Billy’s in Kiev. And presumably, he’s alright.

Charlie wants to reply, but he knows that's not why Billy sent it. And Billy will probably never check that email address again. This was just one message, just an assurance. Charlie reaches out to his computer screen, gently touching the _B._ He sniffles and then moves his mouse to print it, but before he does, he realizes that that’s not what Billy would want either. 

Charlie deletes it before he can tell himself not to, and then he empties his trash. He looks at his computer, blinking as tears finally spill over his cheeks. He stares at the screen until he wonders if he ever got the email at all, or if maybe he just dreamed it.

\+ + + + +

Billy struggles against the bindings as he wakes up. His entire body hurts like fucking _hell_ , and the first thing that comes to mind is that he lost that _fucking_ necklace to that _fucking bitch_ , and—

Someone pulls the hood off his face, and he struggles, trying to see who it is. It’s Emil, he knows it’s fucking Emil, he found him, he doesn’t know how, but he did. “What do you want?” Billy demands. “What do you fucking want?”

A man finally walks around to where Billy can see him. A man Billy doesn’t recognize. “Hey!” the man says, pointing at him. “Hey, calm down.”

 _An American_? Billy thinks. Who the fuck… “What are you?” Billy demands. “Are you a fucking pig?” He spits after he says it, a habit he had when he was younger, to make himself seem harder, stronger. As if Charlie’s not a police officer. Maybe this guy knows him, but Charlie would never send someone to hurt Billy.

“Are you afraid?” the man asks.

“Never,” Billy says. He’s not sure how true that is anymore. He feels pretty scared, and he knows he’s about to say anything that can get him out of here. He didn’t do all this, come here, just to fucking _die_.

“There’s power in that,” the man continues. “More power in finding a cause. Something so important that you’re afraid to lose it.”

Billy can feel how pathetic he must look as he continues to struggle against his binds. He has _no_ idea what the fuck this guy is talking about, but he can’t die here. This can’t be where it ends. He has to get out. He _has_ that important thing, but it’s not here. He left it.

“Afraid that you’re gonna die some other way,” the man says. “For nothing. Instead of what you're fighting for.”

“You’re making a mistake to do this,” Billy says, leaning forward, practically begging for mercy. “I’m— I’m— I’m a thief,” he stammers. “I’ve been robbing my whole fu— I can make you money.” This guy looks like he likes money, Billy can appeal to that.

“Are you afraid?” the man asks again.

“I’ve got skills,” Billy continues desperately. “I can be useful. I can help you.” He feels tears spring to his eyes because he doesn’t know if this is Emil or someone Maksim got him in trouble with or that fucking necklace but he can’t—

“You’re gonna die now.”

“I can fucking help you!” Billy screams. He sounds more pathetic than he’s ever felt but if nothing else is going to appeal to this guy he has to try.

“Gonna fucking die now.”

The coldness in the man’s voice almost flips a switch in Billy, and he realizes that this guy doesn’t give a shit if Billy begs. He doesn’t give a shit about him at all. Whatever this is— this guy’s probably just some random fucking serial killer who gets his rocks off watching people struggle and beg for their lives. Well, Billy’s not going to play along. “If you’re gonna do it, fucking do it!” he snaps.

“You die now!” the man yells back.

“Fucking do it!” Billy screams with impatience because if he’s going to die he just wants it over with and maybe it won’t hurt. Maybe it will be better on the other side, whatever that is.

The man kicks the contraption over, the gun falling to the floor, and Billy squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering. He opens his eyes again when the man— starts to fucking laugh? What the bloody fuck is going on here?

“Oh my god,” the man says, snickering.

“You sick fuck!” Billy yells, because now he’s just annoyed, and he wants fucking answers. “Who fucking does that?”

“You should have seen your face!” the man says breathlessly, still laughing as he points at Billy in amusement.

“You sick fuck. It’s not fucking funny!” Billy just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have time for a fucking prank, so this asshole better let him loose soon.

But the guy just keeps laughing until there are tears in his. “It’s really funny,” he says, and Billy groans.

“Would you just let me the fuck go,” Billy says. “Did Emil send you or not?” The guy continues laughing for what seems like another five minutes at least, all while Billy just stares at him impatiently. Then he finally gets a _no_ , Emil did not send him. 

“I’m here to talk to you about the Avenger Initiative.”

Billy groans again, struggling against the bindings. “Let me fucking go!” he yells.

“Oh man, you are way too easy,” the guys says, walking over to undo the straps on the bed. “I’m One, by the way. Not the number. It’s my name.”

“I don’t care,” Billy mutters, rubbing his wrists.

“That makes you Four.”

Billy looks at him. “Four what?” he asks.

“Not anything,” the guy says. “Just Four.”

Billy frowns.

\+ + + + +

There was an announcement in the newspaper. Charlie could have missed it as easily as anything. He’s surprised he saw it at all, he doesn’t always read the paper. He’s busy. But there it was. Billy’s name, a small photo, a date of death. And a sentence about where the service was going to be held.

He thought about not going. He has no idea if he’s still under surveillance, or if he ever was; Billy was pretty adamant that he wasn’t, but he has no proof of that. But even if he’s not, there’s likely to be someone from the gang at the funeral, there to check if it’s real. Someone who might recognize Charlie as the art professor who got arrested with Emil and Gordan. Someone who might put two and two together. 

Charlie knows that he shouldn’t go. But he has to.

Charlie looks around at the other four people standing there; he never met Billy’s mum, obviously, but he’d be willing to bet that the middle-aged woman, eyes puffy with tears, bottom lip trembling throughout the entire thing is her. She hasn’t asked who he is; he has no idea what she expects. He has no idea what she thought Billy was doing with his life, or where he’s been. He hopes that Billy was in regular contact with her, at least, but he knows that that would also be a pretty big risk. 

Charlie reaches up, wiping at his eyes. He has a bouquet in his hand, trembling a bit. It just makes him want to be sick. Literally sick. Billy had abandoned everything, moved practically a continent away just to try to save himself from Emil. And he died anyway. He’s fucking _dead_. Because he fell off a stupid fucking building in Ukraine.

Charlie can’t even focus on what’s being said, all he can focus on is the tight grip he has on the flowers, and just the absolute burning anger he has in him. He’s sad, he misses him, but this is just— it’s not fucking fair. It’s just not fucking fair. Charlie sniffles, reaching up to wipe at his face. His face feels hot, his tears thick. 

He can’t stand it any longer, and he steps forward, setting the bouquet down on the headstone, and then he reaches up, wiping at his eyes as he sniffles again and turns, walking away. His breath catches in his throat, and it feels like his chest hurts. He just keeps his head down, and keeps walking.

\+ + + + +

“We got a little bet on it, if you want to put some money in,” Billy says, turning to look at Seven.

“It’s an interesting crew you got here, bro. How many missions you guys run?” Seven says, looking down at files.

“Counting Florence?” Billy asks.

“Yeah.”

“Mm, one,” Billy shrugs.

Seven looks up at him. “One what?” he asks.

“Actually no, there was this um, this like, mini mission, so maybe like one-and-a-quarter,” Billy says, moving around in his chair. “It was in Sicily. But Florence, absolute shit show. I mean, if I wasn’t there, probably more than one of us dead. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Seven asks sharply.

Billy looks up at him. “I don't fuck around,” he says.

“You realize I just buried myself in front of my family and friends, right?” Seven asks, taking a seat across from Billy.

“Yeah, One told me about that,” Billy says, sitting back in his chair. “Big military funeral. Guns popping, flags. It’s pretty cool. I mean, at my funeral, there were five people there, and two of them left before the end.” He tries not to stutter over it, though it hard to think about watching Charlie leave. He wishes he could have asked him why. “It is tough watching your mum cry at your grave, though,” Billy continues. But as much as he loves his mum, that wasn’t the hardest part. It should have been. He can’t believe he fell so fucking in love with Charlie after barely knowing him. He tries not to think about him every day. Doesn’t always work.

“Yeah,” Seven says in agreement.

“Anyway,” Billy says, because he needs to take his mind of fucking Charlie, this is not the time, “this mission, I got a really good feeling about this mission.”

\+ + + + +

Frankly, Billy’s just surprised he survived. That any of them survived, honestly, but mostly himself. What a fucking shit show. If it weren’t for Seven, he’d be dead three times over. Fucking hell.

He doesn’t even bother to tell One he’s going back home; he knows that Three goes back to visit his mum, and now he’s taking Two with him, so if Billy can’t go back to fucking London and have a look around, then One can fuck off. He waits until his arm has healed, and then Billy just packs a duffle bag, books a hotel and a flight, grabs one of his now many fake passports, and heads off. 

Billy’s already good at blending in; better yet, he had a fucking funeral. Even if someone sees him, nobody is going to think that it’s him. Just a blond guy in a hoodie. It’s the ultimate disguise. Just to make it even better, he wears a Yankees hat around, playing the part of tourist to anyone who doesn’t actually hear him speak. 

He’s not sure that he should talk to his mum. He knows that’s awful, of course he should want to reassure her that he’s fine, but he thinks it would be even worse if he showed up now. The hurt. He watched her cry at his funeral. He’s not sure he can do that to her again. Especially considering he has no idea when One will call him back, or what the next mission will be. Odds are, Billy will die pretty soon. Then she’d just have to mourn him again. But he checks in on her, watching her for a bit, just to make sure that she seems to be doing okay. 

He finds himself outside of Charlie’s flat too. At least, he hopes that it’s still Charlie’s flat; it was when Billy was back in town for his funeral, but there’s nothing to say that Charlie hasn’t moved since then. Billy hasn’t caught sight of him yet, but he assumes that he’s still at the office for now. Or undercover again, somewhere. Billy won’t know how to find him then, but if he doesn’t see Charlie for a few days, he’s getting on the train to Midsomer. That much he knows.

Billy’s glad he doesn’t have to stand down there on the street, hovering awkwardly, or sit behind a newspaper on the bench across from Charlie’s building, waiting for him to walk by. Nobody can see him up here, as he sits on the roof of one of the buildings across the way. He can see the front door, and Charlie’s balcony. He’s been out there for hours when he finally sees Charlie walking from the direction of the underground, hands in his pockets, head down. Billy pushes himself a bit, still almost completely hidden where he is on the roof, but he can see Charlie perfectly. He takes out his key, and opens the front door, and maybe a minute later, the lights turn on his flat. Billy smiles, reaching his hand up, tracing along the outline of the balcony doors with his fingertip in the air. _Charlie_ , he thinks.

\+ + + + +

Billy watches him for a few days. He’s always alone. He seems to be ordering in a lot of takeaway. Billy sighs. He leaves his hotel early one day to wait outside Charlie’s flat, following behind him as Charlie leaves for work in the morning. Billy wants to get close, he wants to reach out and touch him, but he doesn’t. He stays back, watching Charlie, and the way he doesn’t seem to smile that much.

Billy watches Charlie go into work, and then he fucks off, going to get a bite to eat, going to the cinema, because it’s a good way to kill a couple hours in the dark, where no one should be able to recognize him. He kills more time just walking around, moving with the crowds, hiding in plain sight. Then he goes back to Charlie’s office, and sits and waits until Charlie leaves.

Billy’s almost desperate to run over to him when he sees him. But he knows if he does it in public, it’s going to cause a scene. A _huge_ scene, that, depending on who is around, may put them both at risk. Besides, Billy still isn’t sure that he’s going to say anything yet. He wants to, and he knows that Charlie deserves it, but honestly, Billy is selfish. He doesn’t want to have to say goodbye to him. He’s avoided it so far. With his note, then his email. He’s never actually had to say goodbye to Charlie. But if he pops back up in his life right now, Charlie probably won’t let him go this time. 

Billy lets Charlie go ahead of him on the tube. When he gets back to Charlie’s building, the light is already on in his flat. Billy swallows hard, beyond tempted to go up and see him now. He almost does, ready to start the climb up to his balcony, but then fear shakes him. If he never tries to talk to him, he can pretend that Charlie would welcome him back with open arms. If he tries talking to him and Charlie rebukes him, that’s going to fucking ruin him. So Billy returns to his perch on the roof across the street.

He stays there for hours, until night falls, and the lights in Charlie’s flat turn off. Billy has to figure out what it is he’s doing. If he’s just trying to prove to himself that Charlie’s safe, great, he has. He hasn’t seen anybody from Emil’s team tracking Charlie. So he can go back to his hotel and get out of England, right? But Billy can’t make himself move. Which means he wants more than knowing Charlie’s safe. He wants Charlie to know _he’s_ safe too. And there’s only one way to do it that Charlie will actually believe.

Billy gets back onto Charlie’s balcony with ease. He tries the doorknob; he’s sure Charlie’s got it locked, but everything is worth a try. It’s still a fucking piece of cake to open it; _really_ , Charlie, Billy thinks. Get a new fucking door. Billy opens the door slowly, sticking his head in. He saw the lights go off awhile ago, so he’s not expecting to see Charlie on the sofa or anything like that, but still, he’s careful. 

Billy quietly closes the door behind him, and then reaches down, taking off his trainers. He quietly pads across the floor to Charlie’s bedroom. He puts his hand on the doorknob, and then presses his ear to the door, listening for a moment. He knows this is pretty creepy, even for him. Billy turns the doorknob, and ducks his head in, blinking a couple times to adjust his eyes. He sees Charlie asleep on his back, hand tucked up underneath his pillow. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, and Billy smiles, wondering how many layers Charlie was wearing on top of that shirt today.

Billy watches Charlie for a few more moments, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it. He’s not entirely sure what his game plan is here now; he doesn’t want to _scare_ Charlie, but it’s sort of unavoidable. Either way, he’s going to wake up and see a man in his room that he wasn’t expecting, so. 

Billy just wants to remember this for a bit longer, the way Charlie looks while he’s asleep, the soft noises he makes. He’s a bit of a snorer; Billy had almost forgotten it. Billy walks over to Charlie’s bed, and gently sits down on the mattress. He reaches out, taking Charlie’s hand in his, smoothing his thumb over his skin, squeezing it gently.

Charlie makes a quiet noise, and he stirs a bit, but he doesn’t wake up. Billy leans down, carefully brushing Charlie’s hair back from his forehead, and presses his lips there. As he pulls back, Charlie makes another sound, and his eyes flutter a couple times. He groans and stretches out, arching his back a bit before he settles back down on the mattress. He tries reaching up to rub at his eyes, but Billy’s still holding his hand, and Charlie jerks a bit in surprise.

“It’s okay,” Billy says softly, “it’s alright.”

Charlie pushes himself up a bit, and groans, looking at Billy, blinking in the darkness. “Billy?” he asks.

“Hi,” Billy whispers.

“I—” Charlie jerks back, pulling his hand away from Billy, sitting back against the headboard. “You’re— you’re dead, I’m fucking dreaming.”

Billy shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says. “And you aren’t.”

“Don’t be fucking—” Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose, and then slaps his cheek. “Wake up, wake up.”

“Charlie, stop,” Billy says. “You are awake, I swear.”

“You died,” Charlie says, looking over at Billy, eyes shining with tears. “You died, I— I went to your funeral, I—”

Billy gives him a small smile, shifting closer to him. “You left early,” he says softly, and Charlie lets out a gasp, like he’s been punched, tears spilling over his cheeks.

“You were _there_?” Charlie asks.

“Of course I was,” Billy says. “I had to see you.” He looks down. “I knew you’d be there.”

“How?” Charlie asks.

Billy looks back at up at him. “I made sure the obituary was in the paper you read,” he says.

“Billy, I— what the hell is going on?” Charlie asks impatiently.

“I…I’m not entirely sure that I can tell you,” Billy says.

“Billy—”

“I don’t want to drag you into it,” Billy says. “You— you don’t deserve that.”

Charlie just stares at him. He sniffles and rubs at his eyes, letting out a quiet whimper. “Billy, I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing _to_ say,” Billy says. “I’m here. I’m— you’re not dreaming. Though, let’s be honest, I am a dream.”

Even Charlie has to laugh a bit at that, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “Does this— is it Emil?”

Billy shakes his head. “No,” he says. “He had nothing to do with it. Doesn’t hurt, though. A funeral, obituary in the paper…that’s pretty good cover.”

“It is,” Charlie says. “You even fooled me.”

“I’m sorry,” Billy says. “I…it didn’t— I—” He blows out a breath. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Right,” Charlie says. “Of course it is.” He swallows hard. “Can you at least tell me where you were? I— have you been in London, did you stay in Kiev, I—”

“Turgistan?” Billy says hesitantly, and Charlie’s mouth falls open in shock.

“I—”

“I know how it sounds,” Billy says.

“Have you seen the _news_?” Charlie asks. “I— do you know what just happened there?”

“Of course I do,” Billy says. “I was there.” 

Charlie stares at Billy, reaching up to put his hand on his chin, just shaking his head. “I— Alimov— the refugees—”

“I know,” Billy says, and he shifts a bit closer to Charlie, reaching out to rest his hand on his leg. “Not a very nice bloke, was he?”

“Billy—”

“I like his brother, though,” Billy says, and Charlie just makes another noise of shock.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Charlie says. “You do parkour, you, what— a revolution?”

“Hey!” Billy says. “I don’t just _do_ parkour. I’m really fucking good at it. You should have seen me out there.” He smiles at Charlie. “Can I stay?” he asks. “Just for now?”

“Of course you can,” Charlie says, and he reaches out, cupping Billy’s cheek. “Do you need anything? Toothbrush, something to sleep in, I—”

Billy shakes his head, pulling off his hoodie, leaving him in just a t-shirt. “I’m alright,” he says, and he pushes himself up, choosing to crawl over Charlie instead of walking around to the other side of the bed.

Charlie laughs, watching the way Billy struggles to get under the blankets from on top of them, but finally Billy settles down in the bed next to him. Charlie rolls onto his side, looking at Billy, and Billy smiles back, snuggling closer to him. They rest there together for a few quiet moments, before Billy speaks again.

“Charlie?”

“Hmm.”

“Are you safe?”

Charlie nods, resting his arm on Billy’s waist, moving closer to him. “I am, yeah. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I do, though,” Billy says softly. “I miss you.”

Charlie draws a breath of surprise, and presses his mouth to Billy’s forehead. “I miss you too,” he murmurs quietly.

Billy takes a deep breath and yawns, trying to let his mind relax and catch up with his tired body. But frankly, after the events of the last few weeks, he’s still a bit on edge. They’re quiet; the only noise in the room is whatever filters in from outside Charlie’s window. After awhile, Billy can feel himself drifting off, and he assumes that Charlie’s fallen back asleep. That’s why it scares Billy half to death when Charlie sits up suddenly, reaching over to turn on the light of his lamp on the nightstand. Billy groans, rubbing at his eyes, looking away from the lamp as Charlie sits up, leaning against the headboard. “What are you doing?” Billy asks.

“Seriously,” Charlie says. “You’ve gotta tell me what you’ve been doing.”

Billy lifts his head up; he expects to see Charlie with a serious expression on his face, so he’s surprised that Charlie’s wearing an excited smile. Billy can’t help but match it, and he sits up, leaning against the headboard next to him. 

“I know you were in Kiev,” Charlie says. “But— what happened? How did you get to Turgistan?”

Billy didn’t come here to tell Charlie about One and Seven and Hong Kong or any of it, but that look on Charlie’s face, it’s hard to resist. It’s obvious that Charlie just wants to know Billy, as much about him as possible. Because Billy misses Charlie, and Charlie misses him too. Billy just smiles, and nods. “Okay,” he says finally, and Charlie’s face lights up. “Let’s start with the Kalahari.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday! I'm sure that this isn't as good as the daydream you had about these two, but I hope that you enjoy it nonetheless (gosh I'm very nervous about this one)! Thank you for being you, I hope that this at least puts a smile on your face for your big day, because being your friend puts a smile on mine.
> 
> And [here is the moodboard](https://laminy.tumblr.com/post/624072800256344064/here-come-the-deputy-hes-gonna-come-and-getta) I made for this one!


End file.
